Creativity is like an ambrosia,
Which artists **** sweetly from the fingers of the muse.
A drop at a time is all we're given,
Because it is the most lethal of all drugs.

To be without it creates a void,
Somewhere--we're not sure exactly,
But we feel it.

There is a golden goblet within the mind of every creator,
And it sits waiting to be filled with creativity,
So we can once again pick up our brushes, our chisels,
Our pencils and pens,
And longingly wait for that sweet drop of ambrosia.

You tossed my heart into a frigid sea,
With regret crashing into the rocks.
I sputtered under your scathing remarks,
And cold piercing eyes.

You had waited for a day,
When my defenses were down,
And no boat was out at sea.
Then laughed as I faced the plunge--alone.

I drowned with the memory of your face,
Engraved in my mind like a scar.
Then proceeded to watch,
As my tears became one with the ocean.

Please don’t say not all men, when me too
becomes me three, me four, then twenty,
two thousand, too many for boy to be boys
or locker room talk.

We can’t talk away when men power grab
for things they have no right to touch,
with 140 characters insincere apologizes.

It’s time to man up and speak out and say
that being a gentleman is more than chairs and doors.
It’s less bro fists, shrugs and awkward laughs.
Instead, it is not cool bro, and really man you know better.

Because we know better, we know what goes on behind
closed doors, and only dealing with it when the doors are open
is not a solution but a symptom of the problem.

Being a nice guy does not give you access to her thighs.
Compliments don’t allow you to pass judgements
and what she wears, where she goes and what she does
does not mean a free pass.

If this culture thinks silence is permission
than I will be loud until no one has to say me too.

We’ve forgotten how to heal.
Across the centuries of humanity, our emotional alchemy has been forgotten.
So now—we medicate—pouring pills into our hand so fast that they overflow like…
Niagara.
So now— we stare down the barrel of our third Grey Goose. Its bullets lighting up our bloodstream like…
Fireworks.
And now—we wander the streets and find solace in dark alleys at all hours of the night searching for something to make us…
Numb.
And now— we grab our rusted blade from our dusty nightstand drawer and…
Cut.
When injured, our body fights to heal the wounded cells—and sometimes the wounds were so deep they leave a scar. But they are, nonetheless, closed up.
If our body can heal—our minds can as well.
Somewhere along the way we have lost this very special and redeeming magic.
And without it, the human identity is beginning to corrode.

I wanted you.
You—and your searing passion
Burning the walls of my heart and my apartment.
Our courtship became a game.
Who was the predator?
Who was the prey?
Your hazel eyes set fire to my body
And smoke was exhaled when you got close
People stared—but we were fully dressed.
No indecency was happening on the surface.
But I’m sure they felt the tension.
I felt the tension—my face set aflame by your kiss.
We could have had water and calmed ourselves—
But you already had my whiskey in your hand.