Like a lion, I rip apart this cinnamon raisin bagel, before plunging my face into this coffee, lapping up the sugar and caffeine. I wipe the cream cheese off my face with my sleeve. The lady across from me looks disgusted. I reckon she’s never seen a free human before. The coffee shoots through me, so I pull out my pecker and piss on the floor. She’s never seen a free human before . . . I stand on the table and do a cartwheel, and I feel free— I feel like me. This is it, this

I’ve talked enough. I’ve said my peace. I am in pieces. I have to get the dark out of me. My own mind has let me down; It got me here and then turned its back to me. This is my fault. I did this. I thought myself into misery when I could’ve been happy. This damn pen And everything I imagine. I asked for love. I asked for someone special. I waited and suffered for it. I fought for it. I lost so much to get it. And once I finally had it . . . I pushed it away. I swear I am okay

I suppose we never do find our soulmates, do we? . . . But, only because soulmates aren't found, they're made by two people choosing to build something special together. What we’ve been looking for was always lingering inside of us. The magic is who we choose to be, not in what we feel. CH 9/7/26

Like a stone, We sink like a stone. Another rock at the bottom. It’s numb down here. Ghosts of what we would’ve been circle us. Unfulfilled dreams and promises haunt us. The Reaper hunts us. Time moves so slow. It’s cold. We never could live a shallow life, But this is too deep. We took it all too far. The masks we wear are cracking. The performance is done. The next act waits in the distance, unwritten. We threw our wishes down

Chapter 24 (Untitled Fantasy Novel) Someone started to pound their mug onto the table, chanting ‘speech’ with each pound. Soon, the whole room was doing it. Mr. Freedom popped up on a table, standing on it with a mug of ale in his hand. The room went still, no one moving or speaking, everyone waiting on his words. “. . . I asked a man once, “‘What is freedom?’” Do you know what he told me? He told me that freedom is mathematics because abstraction frees him from the shackle

“God will punish you by giving you everything you ever wanted,” he said to me. He was a retired boxing champ and he was sitting next to me, talking casually. I ordered a whiskey and drank it nervously. He was so damn intense. “God will punish you by giving you everything you ever wanted just to see if you can handle it—to see if you really want what you ask for.” “Huh,” I said, looking at my glass, shaking it so the cube of ice rattled around. “What we think we want in lif

Paint your dream house, that was the assignment for the group of kids in the small art room. My kid was just sitting there, staring at the wall. I’d ask him, “Do you want to draw?” and he’d just shake his head. “Do you want to paint? Do you want to do any art?” Nothing. So I’d go back to reading Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland and wait. He didn’t move. Eventually, I set my book down and decided to try to lead by example. A house with Kaitlyn, in the country, with a flower

“All great artists have popcorn.” “Really? “Yep.” “I’ll remember that.” “Write it down so you don’t forget.” “Right. Good idea.” “Should I use this color?” “Do whatever you want. I won’t ever stifle someone's creativity. Be free to express yourself however you need to.” “I think I’ll color this one as a pink polka dotted dragon.” “Polka dot’s? Are you— . . . I love the idea. Let’s see it.” “And this one will be gold with black stripes?

The bar’s chatter pinballs in and out of my ears. One conversation catches in one ear before another conversation catches in the other ear. They hit each other out of my head before I can focus and hone in on one of them. It’s almost white noise. 40 year old music plays from the speakers above our heads. My beer sits in front of me; half full or half empty, I’ve never been able to tell the difference. I can confidently say that half of it sits in my belly right now. It’s 1:20

I’ll leave the porchlight on for you so you can find your way home in the darkness. And if you stumble through the night I’ll come and help. Lean on me, as we limp back home; as we find our way to the light again. And if you are too drunk And can’t drive, And everything inside of you is breaking, So you sit on the curb outside the bar, And cry, I’ll come and pick you up. I’ll take you home. I’ll be the porchlight. I’ll be the lighthou

Love her like a rose But don't you dare trim her thorns She grew them for a reason And if they bite you It's probably because someone tried to pluck her once or twice Instead of letting her be free to grow Love her Shine for her Be the soil Be the water she needs But let her grow Whatever way she wants to Be her home Not a cage Fake flowers displayed on a stage can’t grow But she is a rose Be gentle with her You two are in this together Be patient And kind Lust for her mi

I've hurt myself much more than you ever could, Love. I’ve been colder than the worst winter we’ve ever had. I’ve burned hotter than the bluest of flames. I went insane at a hauntingly young age. There’s an itch stitched behind my eyes whispering to me, telling me to misbehave. There is nothing you could do to me that I haven’t done to myself already. This life was always heavy. And I used to be lonely. There’s no blood left to bleed inside of me. And I don’t ask for hel

“I don't know how anyone can work a full-time job and have a hobby, Babe.” “I feel the same way. I wasn’t made to work forty hours a week.” “I can’t find the time to write. I don't have enough energy for anything else besides working, minimal exercise and a fading social life.” “There aren’t enough hours in the day.” “Imagine what it will be like when we have a baby? And then a toddler?” “We won’t even have time to breathe.” “How will we manage?” “Insanity?” “Maybe. I’ve been

Through a clenched jaw And a tapping foot He held his tongue Constantly biting his lower lip Eating whatever life threw at him He ate and ate and ate Until he was about to burst What are a few words sewn together worth? Nada, they only feed the soul It can change a person for an hour or two Nudging along me and you He knew he should be more An itch to explore was stitched to his skin An appetite for honest depth A death to fake flowers and cliche sayings A home for something

I tell her all I need is her to be happy and fulfilled in life, and she responds by immediately disappearing. Lesson learned. Stitch it onto my skin so I don’t forget it. Chisel it onto my arms with permanent ink. Let me sink into this. Aim it at my head and pull the trigger. Everyone drowns until they learn how to swim. I’ll spend another night getting stoned and sinking like a stone. Grind it into my bones. Carve it into my soul. Relying o

“Tell me about ‘Rock Bottom’.” “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. 100 times worse than any physical pain.” “Was this when she broke up with you?” “Yeah, it was December of last year. And I lingered down there, in Rock Bottom, for a few months.” “Did you ever think about . . .” “No, no. Not quite. I didn’t like being alive but I didn’t want to die, either. I was reckless during the drive back home, but I was literally driving through tears . . . It wasn’t like that, though

I can’t write for shit, but I can still be honest So, here it goes, my soul exposed. Once more into the fray, Into the mind, Into time, Living to be free, Dying to live, We still breathe, don’t we? There’s still life to live, isn’t there? There’s still oxygen in the air somewhere. I don’t want to sugarcoat this, stop fucking with all of my emotions. I can’t even remember why I started all of this. I piss into the wind, And it hits me in the face. This is how being an artist

It's a stirring of the soul The same spark that starts the brushstroke The first note that leads the charge into a crescendo It’s life at first light after the darkest of nights A pluck on a guitar string as a broken heart starts to sing A planted seed that could grow into anything A single step up a spiraling staircase leading out of hell It’s the first word of a poem dancing with the pen A broke artist taking everything within and using i

“In Africa a thing is true at first light and a lie by noon and you have no more respect for it than for the lovely, perfect wood-fringed lake you see across the sun-baked salt plain. You have walked across that plain in the morning and you know that no such lake is there. But now it is there, absolutely true, beautiful and believable,” - some big dumb macho idiot. I bet If I met Ernest H. We’d argue, We’d drink, And we’d fight. I’d tell him he is a decent

His feet were dangling off the edge of the boat and his reflection was staring back up at him. “I’m having a tough time imagining a fish growing legs and walking out of the water,” he said, slowly reeling in his line. “We’ve caught a lot of fish, haven’t we? I mean, through the years we have. Never once have I caught a fish and thought it was possible it could’ve evolved to walk. Water is all a fish knows, you know?” “Shhh! You’ll scare the fish!” his brother hissed withou