My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.

tribute to down's syndrome children.....you are God's flowers,
His joy, His own

beads of salt and sweat edge
the Cuban sandwich zest from
the tip of my tongue
flavors of my own theme song
echo in my throat

I'm merry ******* footfalls
on hot concrete snares
and the groans swinging
between my thighs take lead
singing cat whistles
along Main Street

snakes will be snakes
and tight cotton shirts
is asking for venom vial shots

don't worry though
those are my brother's loosened trousers
I'm a sweet gardener
I hold doors open
and voted for Hillary
I'm blinding reflection
standing over the hill

but don't shake my thoughts
with your pepper singed howls
cleaning you up messes my stride
dress like a lady and
monsters look for prettier things

oil stains dripping through
the elbows of my shirt
writes working man sonnets
across noir alley doorways
named Touch But Don't Tell

keep quite and use the suggestion box
and don't blame me for chromosomes
genetic randomness isn't my fault
biochemical cocktails don't drown babies
you just fill your bathtub with them

why do you need life jackets
to fill my shirts
empty your oil can and get a promotion
so you can buy your own

I'm tattered sheets stuffed
over hotel window rails
you're a frail damsel selling dreams
I won't buy, I peep keyholes
save digital copies and call the cops
stop screaming and let me save you

your fingers compress a sweaty glock
rioting my stomach
your tones too ******* loud
remember I loaded the bullets
so at least credit me the shot

beads of blood and sweat
whisper cat o' nines tails
see I'm your martyr
but only on favor street.

All this time I was looking for art

I didn’t think it could be
these words
Twisting and writhing in their effort to
escape and
Making shapes
Those strange distortions

The words that slip
So easily from my thoughts
Into my ears
But trip
When they reach my tongue

These silent prayers
These words unsung

They barely cross my mind

'Fake it till you make it', I'm told
As I tremble under the weight of fear
It's a warm statement, yet one so cold
What do I fake if nothing's clear?