I had a dream,
20 years had passed,
You and I had grown older.
Fate had taken a cruel twist on me,
I had to sail away,
Move to the city of Paris.
I wrote you letters,
You wrote them back,
But the ink was laced with tears.
I found a job selling newspapers,
My dream of writing crushed.
You went to work in hairdressing,
For not nearly enough pay.
I saved up each paycheck,
Worked to the bone each day.
I purchased you a plane ticket,
Flew you out to France.
We were happy once again,
Love knows no bounds.

I just want to be outside...all day.
Well, from 4 to 2 Monday thru Friday.
I just want to feel some pride.
Where whatever it takes is right.

I wish there was a place.
Trying my hardest, wasn't a waist.
Where I can learn from mistakes.
Without fear of shame.

To throw myself into whole.
Be glad to leave a bit of my soul.
To net a livable wage.
To live to buy and to save.

To have something to look forward to.
This is my wish I wish would come true.
It used to exist, but now just eludes.
I just want a job I want to go to.
A.R.M.

(The involvement of catchlessly in the piece “silent rage” signifies the non-existent nature of an error awaiting attainment)

And the race is within me, encircles me, captures me, slits my throat open for melodies, but oh, you won’t find rhythm—just an echo
my dear, just an echo.
I am running breathlessly, catchlessly, deliberately but oh my friend, drowsiness can’t be blinked away—drowns me, ruins me, devours me.
The finish line is where I stand, my golden boy. Don’t teach me the phrases you have learned recently. The finish line is where I commenced from subsequently.

Does a star really burn in the sky?
Or do they simply work till they die?

Stir and Mix
Stir and Mix,
Keep your head down
Cuz’ hell you’re helping them drown.

Shake and Pour
Shake and Pour
Not your fault if they fall
Just wipe the counter s’more

Wipe and Scrub
Wipe and Scrub
It’s no wonder you feel undeserving
Of their love

Turn and Lock
Turn and Lock
“Congrats Kid, you’re off the clock”

I'd rather be with friends
than on the receiving end
of another certification
of my value in the tainted nation
fated to find its way back to masters
who offer no explanation
as to why they cast this draining paper
into a world that could be castless
if only we checked our own behaviour.

I'd rather be with friends
than working on a promised future
my abuser talking of a nuisance youth
and pointing fingers saying 'useless'
while they stuff us into suits
and boots that bare no resemblance
to the feet that marked our ascendance,
I seek not vengeance for the things we lost
I simply wish to reduce the cost
of being what we've become
cold and lost
and to continue what we've begun
to press on despite the cost and animosity
and all the atrocities
despite this we strive to build a world
that tempers its ferocity
and lets me be.

With friends.

I peel my skin to find the verse—
each line a nerve, each word a curse.
My fingers crack, the ink runs red—
I bind the poem, stitch the dead.

The page is meat. I carve it clean.
The stanzas pulse. The gaps still scream.
I press my voice through shattered teeth,
then choke it back in paper sheaths.

The world wants sugar, quick and bland—
a feeding trough, not sleight of hand.
It gorges on what’s soft and safe,
then spits me out, still torn and chafed.

They scroll past entrails shaped like truth,
preferring memes to bleeding youth.
I gut myself for depth and grace,
but all they see’s a blank, bruised face.

I nailed my heart to every page—
they laughed and said, “You’re just a phase.”
The words rot slow beneath the glass,
while bots applaud what cannot last.

They drained the soul from every shelf,
left only echoes of the self.
And still I write, while maggots hum
inside the mouth my lines come from.

I cough up metaphors and bile,
They call it “grim” and click “unstyle.”
Yet here I stand, spine sharp with spite,
my hands flayed raw, refusing flight.

This isn’t art that begs to please—
I write in wounds, not symphonies.
Let trend and comfort feed the swine,
my blood is real. These guts are mine.

Under-paid, fed up
Over-worked, had enough
Lotto on, good luck

There once was a gal from Quebec
Whose boss was a pain in the neck:
     She told him, "I quit
     Cuz I'm sicka yer ****!"
And her boss, he "misplaced" her last check.