I’m not sick
but I am tired
trying to grip
anything
that will hold,
because
it’s been some time
since I’ve been inspired
and life has a way
of taking its toll.
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Broken Men, Broken Women
Good men
Are broken
By broken women
Born of broken mothers
By broken fathers
Who’ve broken
Good women
Picking Daisies
I know Matt Whitaker
I don’t know Matt Whitaker
Except, here’s the thing.
We’re not picking daisies
Mr. President
you’re running the country
Mr. President
and you don’t even know who you know?
Mr. President
America is not one of your companies.
America is not your next big deal.
America is not another bankruptcy for you to cash in on.
Mr. President
we’re not picking daisies,
but if we were
she’d love you not.
In cold blood.
It’s people
who feel invisible
that do
the most heinous things,
and nobody
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
evidence
to write a book in cold blood.
I Voted
For what exactly
I am not sure
But today I voted
I voted for people who unlike I
Have power
Power to make a difference
Power to make a change
Power to exercise our rights
As a community of working people
We have power
I have power
And you have power
For what exactly
I am not sure
Until tomorrow
VOTE!
Something Mama chose not to say
Life is like
a box of chocolates
and then
you die.
The difference between women, men, and scars.
Scars heal.
Women don’t.
Women remember everything.
Every failed step.
Every spoken word, every mistake.
But women forget sometimes,
that men too
are unlike scars.
Men don’t heal either.
Men remember everything.
Every time, every opportunity.
And every failed step.
Then there are scars.
The untimely breakup,
which neither swears
they ever saw coming.
Off the bright side
It’s either on the wagon
or off the wagon.
There’s really no in between.
Conscious breathing is still hard.
There’s no easy way to fall asleep.
And either way,
tomorrow isn’t looking any brighter.
Destroying my art one piece at a time
I tell myself stories
and create word pairings
like a master work of Rembrandt
picture perfect in a frame
but no matter my intention
good will is always marred
by Van Gogh’s lack of detail
or is it his mastery of the craft?
Destroying my art
one piece at a time.
Your finest work was not in oil,
it was in your blood.
The last thing I told him
Some of us
have it
and some
of us just don’t.
The ability
to do
what needs to be
done
all the while
suffering
for a possible
weekend of fun
or a cookie cutter
vacation,
one
that everyone’s been on.
Some of us
have it,
while others
must go out with a bang.
Words Of An Average White Male 