This is just a short announcement.
Thank you all for your support.
I would like to announce the release of my
latest book, Sleep Always Calls.
It's available on Amazon.
In my humble opinion, it's my
best book yet.
I have a YouTube channel where I read my poetry.
I will include a link.

Sleep Always Calls is a powerful poetry collection by American poet and author Thomas W. Case. The poetry is raw and gritty. There is honesty and truth in the writing of Thomas W. Case, which is refreshing in today's world of contrived and polished literature. Once you start reading this book, it will be difficult to put it down. The themes range from addiction to heartbreak, and always, a semblance of victory for the downtrodden soul. His creativity and insight are brilliant and fresh in this poetry compilation.

Sleep Always Calls drags you through back alleys of the soul, where sleep is a lie and demons don’t knock. Thomas W. Case spits fire and blood in these new poems, carving truth from bone with every line. Gritty, unfiltered, and unapologetically raw, this collection doesn’t whisper—it growls. Think Bukowski in a blackout. Cohen, after the love is gone. These poems don’t want to save you. They want you to feel everything.

For a moment,
I dive into juicy greenness.
The wind blows the leaves outside.
Today, the air is colder
than it was a few days ago,
when the warmth of the sun was so gentle.

I’m sitting, watching the faces of the youth.
They take their first exam,
a threshold to unknown adulthood.
Under the rules,
imposed by the faceless authorities,
which are as tight as windowless hallways.

I don’t envy them for being young.
I observe them with tender affection.
I pray silently for them
that the world:
won’t laugh at their dreams
won’t hurt their first love
won’t mock their faith

Their belief
they can change every despotic system.
They rise like green promises
of a better future.

After the pain of the human body,
silence arrives,
not good, not bad,
just without noise,
without splendid glory,
filled with unfinished thoughts
of those who loved or were loved.

Crossing through an amorphous gate,
their material vessels vanish slowly
in the rotting smell,
inevitable deconstruction
in the same irreversible order.

The red liquid comes back
to the primordial elements,
to Earth, to Air, to Void,
everything and nothing.

We who are still breathing,
create new interpretations
to be more distant than close
to the elusive insight.

Clearing our space
we put various convictions
in our grief drawer, suffering,
looking for consolation—
against the final revelation.

The cosmic conscious dust
returns to the circle of life.
Does it matter what comes after?
Just stay now,
open your arms,
embrace a tender emptiness.

A strange, dense, heavy word.
Once, graceful and noble
or it seemed to be
until I used it too much.
I know that something fails,
that I’m losing its huge potential.

If I pronounce it aloud
it doesn’t shine anymore for me
in the tiny corners of my mind.
It lingered awkwardly, repeating
“I’m here!”.

The tangled threads
imposing new interpretations.
The materializing weight of sounds.
It's a bitter pill to swallow,
but I know the side effects.

The lightness of the feather
turns into a red brick.
When it hits me,
my inner calm ceases to exist.

I’m struggling to rationalize,
to be more tolerant.
And I just ask myself:
if I truly believe,
why do I say it?

The word so needed,
so loved,
in the silence,
in conviction,
in the presence of no absence.

Something authentic,
wasn’t it meant to be spoken?
So sinister…
it builds and destroys.

The word,

the idea

of




TRUST...

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

We used to meet at this
enclosed bus stop.
Glassed in, like a
blurry-eyed goldfish.
Diesel morning sadness.
We were drunks, dead, and
still dreaming.
There was Chuck, Dog,
Lefty
Lucky
and Beth.

We shared our minuscule
amounts of liquor, and sang
old Motown favorites.

"Mama said there'd be days
like this."

These were the days of the
drunk and debauched.
Liars and lovers, partakers
in this waddling life.
Shattered days and fractured
nights.
We shadowboxed with the
sun, and pretended tomorrow
was a century away.

Blind devotion, a dangerous guide,
While reason sleeps, and truths hide.
Did you see the fire ignite?
The darkness in eyes, extinguishing the light
what a day in a lost paradise
But it happens yet again.