In MORATORIUM stuck for years here,

A kaleidoscope changes frequently,

The mind, transforming made resolves in rear,

How could I ever feel hope decently?

Or will I stagnate in crude leniency,

Of procrastination, indecision,

And in treachery, most importantly.

Should I discover novel precision,

In making just one more bad omission?



It’s Halloween night,

I’m down to a dollar,

Living my pink collar, broke.

Put gas in the tank,

Shouldn’t break the bank,

Living on the eight dollar life.

Not nearly enough tips,

To feed these hungry hips,

A five dollar pizza can choke.

It feels like a curse,

Looking in my purse,

Living on the eight dollar life.


Why be a poet, if nothing can be done, to prevent one from being dumb?
I suppose, so that it’s not as scary,
Whenever things just begin to get dreary.
However dreamlike a poet can be,
His indecision proves him costly.

So whenever it does get shitty,
Just remember what it means to be gritty.
What it means to pose for the world,
In a mask perceived by you, not someone.

And just in case you feel extraordinary bold,
Don’t feel too ashamed naked in the cold.
However many times you dig your head in the sand,
In prevention of emotions, secrets to hit the fan,
Reminisce of the silent marshmallows at night,
That bring you that lavender sweet end of sight.

So then everything will be quite alright,
In the morning, you’ll still be up and alive.
So many changes, so drastically transpiring,
That my poems have consistently been crying.

A bump to a bump in my life’s journey unfolded,
That I never got the chance to get over the first bump,
Never got the chance to breathe,
Never got the chance to fully unload it.

Before I would get smacked with a new addition,
Recharging my batteries was not a tradition,
And therefore, I reacted with so much emotion,
That I’m shocked I’m still even making this notion.

Nonetheless, if a poet, I can say that I am,
I can’t say that I have any particular map or plan.
I’m beginning to drift through life just biting the bullets,
And enjoying this newly found strength to the fullest.


Alone and together,

Together, yet alone,

We stood so many years,

But those years are gone.

I’m driving on a dark route,

Let’s call it sixty-six,

The cop that’s on my ass,

Is making me feel brass.

That’s not how I had imagined,

Pursuing this old, desolate road,

But asking, what if I got pulled over?

Is making me feel bored.

What if? What if? What if?

Just runs through my head,

But it’s not the marijuana,

And I’m not paranoid, I laughed.

It’s been a few long years,

Since I took this bizarre street,

But I’m only going forty an hour,

Without a maniacal creep.

I am kidding off the margarita lime,

But perhaps he was bipolar,

Psychologically coiled,

Similarly foiled, just like me.

I smoked no grass with him,

Yet anxious I still had been,

Afraid of the authorities higher,

I clenched onto his wheel.

He was the one toking,

Smoking on our time,

What once made me nervous,

Just no longer applies.

There is no longer authority,

Standing over my head,

No one to say I’m wrong,

No one to say I’m bad.

So, all in all, I think that I’m alright,

And so is the maniacal creep.

The police are alright too,

They follow the system’s rule.

Some men are good, some bad,

Some just a little better,

Some of them end up sorry,

Some of them will blame forever.

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

The question really mattered then.

Today, it’s no longer suffocating,

To live inside my brain.




A sad saxophone in my ear,

Just the tone I want to hear.

It’s the music to my life,

Up and down in melodic strife.

I thought that someone had paid,

The lovely saxophone man,

To play the same song on repeat,

But in vain this I had wondered in defeat.

Four hours in and two cigarettes down,

He’s making me feel like a clown,

Playing “Careless Whisper,” with no care,

Only if he knew I was in despair.

One drag, two drag, three drag,

Four… a table just got sat.

Sorry, if that’s your last one,

These guests need water and really don’t care,

If you can’t afford another cigarette pack today.




I walk uninspired,

Getting so tired,

Of being mute.

Why can’t like Hughes,

Could I produce,

Some poetry.

It would be grand,

To see it unveil,

In my thoughts.

But it’s better the pen,

Suffer this concern,

For it does not mind.


Sometimes when I take a shit,

I ponder how to make it quick,

Because I can’t stop, I admit,

Thinking about this stupid brick,

It lies here within my chest,

Controlling now my thoughts,

Contaminating this toilet time for rest,

As this happens kinda lots,

I just may have to quit,

Because of how much I really don’t have to shit.