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.
I don’t always know why I walk in the monster’s shadow. Just that it seems like a good refuse from a blinding sun, a place to cool off after running for so long. I don’t know why I walk in the monster’s shadow, but it draws me in like a magnet, then holds me in the dark just long enough that I don’t think I’ll ever see light again.
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.
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.
Phil Kaye taught me that
if you repeat something enough,
it loses its meaning.
I have spent so much time
trying to give purpose to your life
that I have lost my own.
I do not know how to tell you
that I am a hypocrite.
I spend so many hours
coaxing the safety back on your gun,
with a finger on my own trigger.
I convince you to live
while planning my death.
I hold hands with my demons
while breaking down yours.
I do not know how to ask for help
because you always request it first.
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.
I know it’s not my best piece, and normally something such as this would be discarded, but I’ll share anyway.
I ask my demons why,
bribing them with angels.
They chew on the halos
like teething rottweilers.
Their diet is a fad
made of my happiness.
They strip me to bone,
then tell me my fears;
“Don’t worry my child,
it’s all in good fun.”
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.
It has been six months / but sometimes / I still think of you / still miss the refuge I found in you / miss the way were my medication / calming the pain / my brain couldn’t cope with on its own / It has been six months / but sometimes / I still miss you / I search / for a new addiction / writing my stories in poems / instead of my… / sometimes I still miss you / still miss the way you helped / in some sick and twisted way / still miss you / but no longer need you / no longer itch for your touch / when I can’t feel my own / no longer read the stories in my scars / instead hide them in my words / It has been six months / but sometimes / I still think of you / still miss you / but never need you.
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.
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.
