My body heaves and convulses
while tears stream down my face
blurring my vision
like a camera lens in fog.

My mind was sick.
I had just watched the movie
The Pianist about the Holocaust.
The Holocaust was sick.
A man in a wheelchair fell
from a tenth story window,
dumped out by the SS.
Sickness.

My body was sick.
I could not speak.
I could barely cry for that matter.
All I could do was sob.

My spirit was sick.
I hadn't prayed in a whole month
and God and I were floating
farther   and         farther            apart.

My soul was moved.
I heard the real star in The Pianist
Wladyslaw Szpilman play
Chopin's Nocturne in C# Minor.
(that is NOT a hashtag)

That was when I broke down.

I can only break so much
Can only lose so much
Can only stumble so much

Until I'm permanently damaged
Until I'm a complete failure
Until I fall too far

And end up totaled
And end up lost forever
And end up in the abyss

This something of
a doctor once
asked me to
write a list.
He leaned back
in his squeaking,
worn leather
chair.
Entwined his fingers
behind
his greasy
half balding head.
Exposing the
wet stains on the
arm pits of
his creased button
shirt as if they weren't
there.

He thought he was so
smart ,so superior
with his framed
accomplishments
littered all
over his institutional
colored office walls.


I sat across from
him degreeless and
self educated,
therefore a failure
in this sham of a
world they have
created.

He thought
I was dumb with my
crude prison tattoos,
police record
and noticeable
stammer.

I took hold of the
sharpened number 2
and for the briefest of moments
seriously considered
jamming the lead filled
pencil deep into his
razor burned neck.

I stared at the
yellowing
stains beneath his
flabby arms
and couldn't help but smile.
I smiled as I put
point to paper
and began to write
his stupid list.

There's a pistol hungry
for vengeance and heavy in my
pocket urging me forth.
A lazy monkey
who insists I carry
it's burden.
A mind so full of
tragedies that
even nightmares
steer clear.

A broken heart that
needs to stay broken.
Shattered hopes that
refuse to dream.
Tattoos that have forgotten
their meanings.
Junkies who need
their junk.

Death raiding ravens
circling overhead.
A black cat
who saved my life
more than once.
A girl I love
who will never
love me.
******* doctors
with **** smelling arm pits.
Bad kids who know they're
bad.

Stray dogs in search
of a home.
Dead minds cheering
for ball chasing men.
Working men
who know nothing
of the world but
work.


Broke and addicted
writers looking for
a casket to rest in.
An empty grave
that longs
to be filled.

That letter I wrote and
still haven't sent.
And a date with
a dealer
therefore this   
list is
now done.

Clouded mind full of
fear, as a smog of  poison
envelopes my dreams.

Where once its was colour
and fantasy, now coated in black
thorns, dreams touched each
poisoned and a bright place
turns to eternal darkness with
in my sleep .

I dream of the day where I don't
wake up with a scream, of the
darkness surrounding me now
tinted are my dreams. My awake
time is my safe place, I fear the
time of sleep, where there is darkness
to corrupt me while  not awake.

will it spread to my waking
dreams, will I see things not real,
how long can I hold out when
will the darkness consume my
day and night where I will
see only things of darkness
not even real.

a quiet discontent
seeps slowly into my bones.

a steady stream of despair
floods my whole perspective.

I cannot escape the weight
pressing quietly down on me.

A slow steady death of my own making.
How do I escape this maddening numbness?

I cry out of the darkness out of a deep dark hole.
A glimmer of hope comes in the form a voice.

Someone climbs down into the darkness with me,
and tells me that he  can't lift me out, but
he can share with me how he dug himself out.

Hope rises from strange places,
and mine began when
I experienced love from strangers,
and realized I am part of a We.

One two three four on the floor
Open up the ******* door
If you don't you'll surely die
We'll mourn your death until death cries
When death weeps we'll be on our knees
We'll cry out and our voice will be full of glee

One two three four in the sky
Now open up and don't be shy
Now write your heart out till I bleed
You'll never hear my silent screams

One two three four five six seven
When the clock strikes one you'll surely be savage
Now don't be scared to show your scars
I have them too if you've looked in my eyes

One two three four on the floor
Open up the ******* door
If you don't you'll surely die
We'll mourn your death until death cries

One two three four I'm insane
Cause this song is stuck inside my brain
I made it up just today
And now I'm going mad cause I can't think
Lets hurry up and take a drink

Hmm hm hm hm hm hm hmmmmm
Hmm hm hm hm hm hm hmmmmm
Hmm hm hm hm hm hm hmmmmm....

Living  life wondering, do I matter? Did he actually care? The time the effort the love the patience the stress the heartache the pain. All for you and still nothing. Nothing, nothing at all. Not once but twice and I've been nothing but nice. Lying there broken, like a broken vase waiting patiently to be put back together. But afraid to be broken once again.

The words of me...

My mind is blank, and I keep thinking *what are the words of me?

Some here has called me beautiful, worthy, expressive
But I feel ugly, unworthy, miserable, and meek

What are the words of me?

I'm silent on the outside, silently loud on the inside
Always am I sad, my soul cries and lets out silent screams

What are the words of me?
I find it a mystery.
Why am I a mystery of myself?
Am I still figuring the paradox that is me?
I think so
It's like
I'm still learning my soul and the hieroglyphics that is my heart
Both are foreign to me
Something I've barley discovered

What are the words of me?
I'm still confused, like I never really knew, or maybe have yet to discover it

What are the words of me?
Well here it is.
The words of me are the foreign language of my heart and soul
Each and every poem I wrote and will write explains the words of me
Little by little
My poems are the words of me and more

Those are the words of me
And they're worth a billion and more pictures

Silence like the inhale
before the exhale
of the ex-pianist
who lost his arm
saving his quadrant
from a land mine.

A moment of silence
for the men and women
who gave their lives
for a country of ingrates
who never offer any words of hope
or even a silent smile.

The silence of a mother
brushing her daughters raven-like hair back behind her ear.
A mother who had to beg for one last moment
to memorize every freckle and curve
as well as every pore and eyelash.
The silence of a final embrace.

A smile, quietly plastered on
to hide the screaming youth.
The silence before nervous laughter
swallowing back shallow sobs.

The silence of a wolf stalking its prey
before a bullet enters its brain from behind.
And the silence of the pups
watching from a distance.
Then the clamor of the gunmen
ecstatic with their catch,
falling silent only seconds before
the tortured howling and cries
from the orphaned beasts
surround their sub-conscience
for the rest of their lives.