Season dies to welcome the anew
And I witness
How this door begins to rust, collecting dust
Still, I traverse

The sun smiled at me that day
Too bright, it Bestow me some solace
But the door are too grotesque
Too conspicuous, they frightened me

Is it time to unveil what lies within?
To fall into the abyss of inner turmoil
That I've locked into the deepness of my *****
But the moment I transcribed them into words,
It became the truth.

Be honest. Be honest.

Do you ever feel like your story is being written for you?
Maybe that’s why I write—
because when I look down, at least I know it’s mine.

How did I get so lost,
so far from what was once so bright?

Page after page keeps turning,
but my pen ran out of ink long ago.
Time keeps passing,
but the story unfolding isn’t me.

Maybe my story was never mine.
Maybe it belongs to someone else.
Maybe I’m just a book collecting dust
on a stranger’s shelf.

Maybe that’s why I write—
so that somewhere, buried in those pages,
there is at least one part
that is undeniably mine.

Your beautiful wave washed over me,
When I was a lonely shore off the sea.

Wrapping its elegance over my sands,
The way we hold each others' lonely hands.

Replaced the dust with dazzling sea glasses,
Brought back the sparkle to my heart's masses.

I look through the posts of my many friends-
A hundred likes here and a thousand likes there.

My heart feels the ache of wanting to be known
As I look through all my numerous posts.

Only a like here and a like there,
The dangers of social media I bear.

The gallop of horses against the ground,
The cries of men heard all around.
Their shields up and armor clashing,
Arrows and swords ready for lashing.

“Onward!” My king cried out,
Though our hearts were filled with doubt
Noticing fear and hesitation, my King turned and gently said,
“Friends, do not fret nor fear.”

“Dost thou think I am unafraid?
If so, my guise does betray.
My heart is filled with worry and despair,
Hidden by this armor I wear.”

“I am afraid of tomorrow
For what if that day only brings sorrow?
Yet, I am here, with all of thee;
By one voice, we all agree.”

“There is still good in this world–
The goodness of men still preserved.
Acts of kindness here and there,
And love spread everywhere.”


“For those with me, ride!
Raise your swords and put up your arms!
For though darkness shall rule this day,
We shall keep it at bay!”

As my King rode to battle, we were at His side.
From our mouths, proud voices we cried.
The sun’s rays shone through the gray;
My King was the one who led the way.

He proclaimed with a strong voice,
“Onward, men of bravery! Onward!
For on this day, we shall rejoice!
We shall not fear but fight forward!”

I had been sober for
awhile and was getting that
itch to drink.
I couldn't recall the
degradation and misery of
the last drunk a few months
earlier.

It was spring, and I was standing
outside of the flophouse, I was
staying at.
Just then, a big sunflower of
a woman walked by.
"Hi Jenny," I said.
We had a past.
Not much of one though.
It resembled a Dali painting that
had been soaking in the rain.

We ended up in a motel with a
bottle of Absinthe.
Jenny wasn't much of a drinker,
No problem, more for me.
Jenny wasn't much of a
conversationalist, and half-lit on
robust *****, neither was I.
I walked around the room talking
about Hemingway and Van Gogh,
Fitzgerald and Picasso.
Jenny wasn't interested in them.
She wanted me to score her some dope.

She said, "If you want this *****, you
will buy me an eight ball."
I didn't.
I wanted to write, but I was too drunk.
We wanted different things and neither
of us
found them that night.
And later at about 3 am when I got
up to ****, I could have sworn I saw the
picture of Van Gogh on the box of Absinthe
laughing.