I was tasked to clean it up—
but the mess?
It wasn’t mine.
I stepped right into your ****,
you led me,
right into it.

Now we both reek,
covered in the stink—
of choices I didn’t make,
but still, I’m forced to sink.

You lit the fire,
I brought the hose,
but somehow I’m the one exposed.
You played the victim,
I played along,
now I’m left wondering
where I went wrong.

They point at me—
the smell too strong—
but they don’t know
who led me on.

You wiped your hands
while mine stayed stained,
you walked away,
and I remained.

Cleaning up
what you left behind,
still gagging
on the ties that bind.

So next time you’re looking
for someone to save—
remember:
even heroes
get tired of graves.

I don’t find it hard to be sober.
Being social and sober—
that’s the hardest part.

It seems like everyone has a vice.
They call it “Cali sober,”
but I can’t do that either.
If you’re masking pain with anything,
you’re not sober.

I stopped drinking on the road,
living a life of quiet solitude.
Hotel rooms, empty diners—
I’m not the type to drink alone.

Even eating at the bar feels heavy,
lonely beneath the hum of televisions
and clinking glasses.

I have friends.
But when they drink,
I shrink.
I always want to leave.

I’ve always been anxious,
but now it’s sharper—
more present,
more real.

It’s been a year
since my last drink.
Twelve months passed quickly,
but the pride remains.

Clarity came soon after—
clear as the sky after rain.
But being social
still feels like walking into a storm.

Because everyone drinks.

I’m not the one to call them out
when they get loud,
when they stumble,
when they slur.
But I no longer want to be there.

So I stay home.
Alone,
more than I’d like.

Searching
for someone
who sees the world
the way I now do.

I find myself
on the outside looking in—
like standing on a porch
at someone else’s party,
hand raised to knock.

I peer through the window:
laughter, smiles,
cheers rising like music.

But I don’t knock.
I don’t go in.

I didn’t stop drinking
because I had to.
I wasn’t destroying myself—
not exactly.

But in hindsight,
alcohol lit too many fires
I spent years trying to put out.

And that—
that’s the hardest part
of being sober:

Living in a world
that drinks
like it breathes.

Hackles darned and threaded tight,
Dubbing blends to shape and hide,
Hook disguised as nymph in flight—
The bait,
The lure,
A scaled-up knight,
Who swims beneath
The sun’s bright gleam,
And hides within
The water’s dream.

My rod pulls back—
I give a cast,
Ten to two, then two to ten,
I let the fly drift past again.

It drops in place,
No sound, no trace,
No tug, no pull, no race—
Until I twitch and snap the slack,
The hook sets firm—
I’ve met my match.

The water slaps,
I hear my shout,
A trout! A trout!
I dance about.

I tug the rod,
I turn the reel,
A fight too strong for me to feel.

And when the net secures my prize,
I stop—
and look into its eyes.

Compassion, sudden and alive,
I free the hook,
I let it dive

We’re both really lucky you and me
Until tomorrow ,
We are both free

They ask us to give
when we have so little.
They promise to protect us—
protect our way of life.

But why must we give,
when we already have so little,
and they have so much?

They say it’s to preserve a way of life…
But whose life are they saving?

Is it our way of life—
where we struggle, scrape, and survive?
Or is it theirs—
where they ask for more,
and take even more,
from those who have none to give?

If those with plenty gave a little more,
there would be food at every table,
hope in every home,
peace in places worn by sorrow.

If those with wealth shared their hands,
the world would heal
faster than it ever broke.

A better world is not beyond us—
it is just beyond their greed.

Dressed —
to reflect our mother’s respect.
Left —
on the steps,
waiting —
What to inspected.

With little intent,
we — boys —
unable to pent,
spilled down the stairs,
our mischief —
a crooked sklent.

No fear —
for the unkent.
Our joy —
wild, content,
without pause,
without consent —
for our mother’s lament.

Her eyes —
narrowed and bent,
as she breathes —
in our scent.
Emotions rise —
then ascend,
but all she shows —
is dissent.

We—
too young to repent.
Boys —
full of descent.
Her smile —
soon blent,
but her love —
never pent.

With arms bent,
mouths full of incent,
spitting mud —
with wild intent —
we drank —
from puddles.

Oh child,
so young to be alone,
no means to cope,
left sobbing on gravestones,
void of all hope.

Now searching for a home,
the old one now torn,
wanting for what’s gone,
lost is the memory—
forlorn.

When all those who passed,
love’s shadow is cast,
young sorrow to last,
Left aging so fast.

I lost my safety net
the day she left this world.
The one who caught me
when I slipped,
when I stumbled,
when I fell too far.

I lost my guard rail
the day my mother died.
The one who kept me
from flying off the road,
from crashing into the dark,
from losing my way.

Now—
I’m stuck.
Stuck in a rut.
No hand to catch me.
No arm to steer me right.

And maybe—
maybe that’s grace.
Maybe that’s mercy.
Because at least I’m stuck…
and not
drifting
away.