Can’t you see?
It’s time for me.
I’ve played the tune in lower key,
Where silence hums eternity.
So what’s the deal? I’ll keep it real,
I ain’t afraid, my bed is made.

I guess the devils got a place for me.

I’m not so bad when I know the truth,
Confessions end in a lonely booth.
I’ll see you there amongst the flames,
With Paul and Peter and St. James.

Oh I danced with doubt, drank with pain,
Slept in the gutter, sang in the rain.
Laughed at life, cried at death,
Made peace with ghosts and held my breath.

I lit my sins like cigarettes,
Watched 'em burn with no regrets.
The preacher screamed, “You still got time!”
But I was too far gone in song and rhyme.

The Devil’s got a place for me,
Front row seat, infernal heat.
I'll bring the wine, you bring the scars,
We’ll toast beneath those falling stars.
And if the angels disagree
Well, hell was always home for me.

I wore the guilt like second skin,
The price I paid to let light in.
But now I walk with open eyes,
No more prayers, no more disguise.

The mirror told me all I need:
I’m not the monster, just the seed.
Planted deep in doubt and dirt,
Grew thorns of rage from every hurt.

No choir sings for blackened grace,
But I still smile in this cursed place.
Don’t need no wings, I’ve got my voice
And fire is just another choice.

So use your brain, break every chain.
This world was wired to make you tame.
But in the spark, the mind sets free,
A thousand doors, infinity.
The fools obey, the brave create
And I walked right through the fiery gate.

The Devil’s got a place for me,
And that’s just where I’m meant to be.
Can’t bribe my soul, or buy my fate
I built this path, I sealed the gate.
So come on down, and dance with me
Where truth is raw, and we’re finally free.

Why don't you come down and join me.
But freedom's price ain’t peace or grace,
It’s seeing Hell in a clearer space.
You break the chains, then break some more
And find the Devil at your door.
The devils got a place for me.

As the deer pant eth, for the water, so my soul pant eth after thee.
Who can we liken our journey unto.
But that of a deer.
As winter rears its ugly head.
The deer knows,it is for greener pastures it has to seek.
The journey a long and treacherous one.
But it has too be done.
Danger lurking every where,as wild beasts wait, to pounce upon their prey.
The elements of nature, pounding down as they encounter.
Torrents of rain.
Storms unleashing their full fury.
And the blisteringly sun, beating down in full force.
The search for water is drastic.
As they know not where the next water  supply will come.
Many not making this journey, as they are taken out.
So too is this our journey.
Sometimes we experience, four seasons in one month.
As we are been hit, right .left and center.
The full fury of the Titans, bashing us to pieces, as it is unleashed with such full force.
Trials from inside and out.
Pain, sorrow and loneliness.filling our very being.
But a journey that has to be done.
And as the deer pant eth for the water.
So do we.
Searching for a well,to fill us up.
So that we do not grow weary, nor faint.
As this is a journey.
We all must make.

The influence
Of the self
On the self
Is not generally
Accepted as defined
The self itself
Not even definite
But that way
We're inclined.

you hand me
the extra loaf
of bread
and
I devour it
devoid of
thankfulness.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your fingers
still wreathed
in dough
and smelling
of hard work
and tradition.
In my mouth
they are but morsels.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your daughter;
my teeth and
my nails
penetrate her flesh
and I swell up
with hunger
and desire,
as her body
drips like
hot bread
sunken in
sweet summer wine.
Is this not a feast worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your dreams
and grind them up
into dust.
A dust that stains,
a dust that erodes
and oxidates
and rots away
at your future.
Is this not a feast worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I devour your hope,
just like I did
your child,
just like I did
your future.
I turn it all
into rust
and biofilm.
Is this not a feast worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your land,
your home,
and the breadcrumbs
of your failing
dignity.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I hunger still.

I eat the sky,
the sea,
and the mountains
too.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I hunger still.

I take it all,
for nothing
seems to
fill my gut,
and nothing still
can ease my need.

I hunger still.

I devour the nothingness,
for there is
nothing left
for the greatest man on Earth
to eat.

LLC whispers on the street
Did you form yours?

Sun Valley residents protest Tiny Home Village at Metrolink station
A 208-bed facility at the Metrolink site faces backlash from residents who say they weren’t informed before city approval

This is not a peaceful assembly of a citizens budget, participation, legislation, record, or approval.  
Unilateral movement of profit diversion from investigation

Non retractable pacing the stay

As the building travels as bribes?

Living Poetry isn’t just the pulse
it’s the shiver in the silence,
the breath that bends ever so slightly between chaos and clarity,
It's where rhythm forgets the rules
and emotion takes its own path through the wreck-stained longing.
It’s the shape of every buried cry,
and the stillness after that scream.

It doesn’t wear banners or declare itself aloud,
but spills from the wound unbandaged,
seeping quietly as whispers, warm as breath,
born screaming from every sinew wound scar you swore you'd never show,
when your entire body trembles beneath beauty’s weight,
scars and longing, those thoughts
and still, you write.

Originality isn’t invention you know but return
to the place in you no one else has lived,
no one else has felt,
no one knows
it's the place
where memory blooms like orchids in May or roses in June,
and each word steps soft into its own quiet ruin.
The page is no mere sanctuary,
only a looking glass,
reflecting the you inside the you,
and even that with light’s refraction distorts under truth.

You follow a resonance, not linear, but alive,
it breathes
woven through old hurts and the flash of joy, love, or pain
a rhythm that forgets its tempo just to feel.
Sometimes it bleeds.
Sometimes it sings.
Sometimes it does both in the same breath,
sometimes it’s a storm in your chest
or a lullaby no one else can hear.

Here, in this space
the poem doesn’t ask to be liked,
doesn’t need to be loved,
it doesn't even need to be read
it just asks to be real,
to come from where it's real
no matter if it's filled with butterflies
or a wreckage-drenched kiss,
To stand unguarded in the room, alive in essence
to hum beneath the colossal static of the world,
the fluttering of black ravens and white dove,
and remind you: this is not just art
it’s the aftermath of being human.
It’s what binds you back to the raw nerve of now,
It’s the filament that flickers when no one is watching.

Sharp while caring, always real
Like every morning sun
and first star in the evening sky
that sings truth to the moon.