I grew up in a tough neighborhood,
Seen and experienced every kind of
Street hell you can think of.
Its no secret I was a drug addict,
I beat that.
Its no secret my mother was shot dead
In front of me.
I beat that.
All who know me,
Well, you all may not like me after
I told you I was dead.
I beat that.
So for those who are fighting,
Those who are bullying,
I send an open invitation to bully me.
To hate me, to write bad stuff
About The Dedpoet.
Leave all those other guys alone.
I can be your punching bag.
Because I can take it,
Because after all,
If we met in the streets I would
Hug you with a haiku,
I'd lay kisses on your cheek
With a thousand sonnets from
Neruda.
I'd read you Octavio Paz
Until you realized you are not a poet.
Poets do not bully,
They understand, they are philosophical
Word artists whom write the human
Condition and deal with the chaos
Of this world with peers.
So bully, so whomever you are,
Attack me, someone who knows
What you really are.
I can take it,
Just leave the real poets be,
This is an open invitation.
Let the fun begin, if you have the
Metaphorical ***** for it.

I found myself wandering along the path
in the woods the other day--
I was alone (or so I thought)
when I began to pray
and as I stood next to a tall and aging tree
I thought I heard an angel
calling out to me--
I didn't realize tears were falling down my face
all I wanted was a caring embrace--
someone to tell me that all will be okay
and then this angel came to me to say,
"do not shed tears, my dear one--
the day will come when you will know
just where it is
you're supposed to go.
Until then, relax and allow
your heart to smile
and be ready for whatever comes your way
and allow your soul to rest awhile