I watch
as she takes in more pills than she can swallow,
choking on the medicine
supposed to relieve the ache
of the strain on her lungs
from her mind’s refusal
to let her breathe in the oxygen
through the ash.

I watch
as she drowns the pills
in cheap liquor,
dissolving the lump in her throat,
but refuse to listen
as she screams.

I watch
as she drains herself of voice,
and claim
I never knew
because she never spoke;
but refused to see;
a murderer,
you cannot convict.

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



Sometimes I want to search for an end
before the end finds me. I want to take
a magnifying glass and find the ink
smudges in the word searches to find
flaws in  something more calculated
than me. Sometimes I want to get to
the punctuation before the sentence is
finished and let the words become a
mystery on paper instead of asking
where my own voice disappeared to.
Sometimes I want to find an answer
before the questions begin to look for

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

You Before Me (I’m Not Mad, Just Broken)

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.

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.

All Things Killing You

I used to think the sickness was a virus,
poison from foods, not the beverages,
too young to understand the hangover remedy
of fingers reaching back to pull forward
toxins you ingested willingly.
I stand by, watching a slow suicide,
useless against the monsters you fight,
as addiction continues to hold you hostage.

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You push yourself for the highest position,
expectations exceed capabilities,
a love-hate relationship blossoms
at a point that you worked so hard for.
You appreciate the pay that brings pain
from working past logical possibility.

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The smoke is handled by the wind,
swirling circles make halos
with every drag you take.
Fate’s subtle reminder of a slow death,
you justify it’s coping with stress.
Nicotine whispers sweet nothings in your ear
and you’re addicted to the intimacy it brings.

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Insomnia makes a deal with stress,
shakes the hand that holds your eyelids open,
forcing activity into a restless mind.
He rolls your conscience into a ball
and plays ping-pong with your thoughts,
leaving you awake to keep score.

Fever Dreams

I want to follow you into the
depths of a shadowed unknown.
A place feared, many wish not
to visit such darkness. Blind
for so long, living in the light
of days scares me more than
walking hand-in-hand into
the conjectured oblivion. So,
let us chase the unseen in favor
of surviving all these fever dreams.