I hang half-dead on a wall,

displayed and gagged with fear,

I am mute,

the vise tightening against my throat,

fingertips litter the crime scene.


My body was once a temple,

before you entered with your servants,

and ransacked all that belonged to me.


You left me chained to concrete,

my insides broken,

and my voice on mute.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.


Panic Room

Anxiety locked me in this panic room,

forced the gun in my hand and told me

it’s my turn. We’re actively engaged in

a game of russian roulette with my fears,

each shot spraying my thoughts on the

walls, repainting with my brain.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

If You Died Tomorrow

If you died tomorrow,

I would not be sad,

at first,

I would be angry.


I would become the selfish one,

painting you the bad guy still-life,

making my newfound pain your fault.


I would ask questions like

“how could you do this to me?”

and “Why didn’t you think of the person you’d hurt?”

before considering how long you suffered,

Or how you thought you were doing favors,

removing the glitch in this system,

erasing a mistake from our lives.

Or how depression planted seeds in your mind,

The suicidal thoughts grew forests in your head,

and all you wanted to do

was burn away the overgrowth.


I would not consider your agony,

I would be outraged

with the way you threw away all that we created

In just a few swallows,

Or swipe of a blade.


If you died tomorrow,

I would be angry

at myself.

For not being there

when you needed a virus protector,

Or a shovel to dig up the roots,

and remove the cause of this tragedy.

I would blame myself

For you no longer having a reason

to stay.


And if you were to die tomorrow,

after all this,

I would show the others the way you made me feel,

and together we would anger those we cared about.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

From One Depressive to Another: A One-Sided Conversation

I know. Your terminal illness is only physical when your stomach is so hallow, the splash in the bottom of the well is the echo of whiskey drowning the butterflies. When bedsores spread faster than cancer from another day your mattress carries the sent of loneliness and you do not want it to feel the way you do. I know. I know how you long for darkness because the heat of the sun sets fire to the liquor in your veins and wearing sunglasses is just easier; easier than admitting it hurts. I know it hurts. But you would rather die in the fight than surrender with the white sheet grounds you battle from. You believe the soldiers need a strong leader, not one who wipes them out with medication. I know you want to trust your troops, but they are no more than drunken bed bugs keeping you from calling an exterminator. You fear the pesticides will leave more holes than the tumors depression is spreading through your mind. And I know…I know I am a hypocrite for telling you it is okay to make your medicine a weapon of choice, to hold that sheet with pride, and not taking my own advice.