Not Fair

So much time passed me by. All the time I could only sit and cry.

Maturity I’ve got, but not the things that are supposed to come with it.

No matter how hard I try to decry, I cannot deny.

Whatever I have to offer, mostly I’m just a piece of shit.

I keep trying, my apparent fate I defy.

Broken as I am, I still have my intellect, imagination and wit.

I’m not a drowning man, waiting for someone to save the guy.

Just cursed with a combination of traits that suck and make me a misfit.

Tortured artist, girls seem to like that, but not when you look like me and are cripplingly shy.

Still, when I see some of the pricks they go for I have to wonder… what makes me so unfit?


Books of Poetry and Stories:

Bitter Walk Home

Stepping along the street, heading to see her again.

She minds the counter and all I can do is stare.

Right there, feet, inches, soft, sweet, beautiful.

Pay for my shit and run away.

I can tell everyone is laughing  at me, even when they aren’t.

But nothing can compare to this ache in my fucking heart.

Get back home, I want to go back, I want to say the words.

But I stand and do nothing, it’s what I’m best at.

Write a note asking for a date, sits in my wallet unused.

Welling up inside is the self hate, fear my mind likes to abuse.

No reason for the fear, that’s what I tell myself.

But there are really many.

What if she says no?

What if she says yes?

I’m not sure what scares me more.

She’s right there, and if I ever had a chance every day it slips away.

And I tell myself to act but I never really try.

The panic, anxiety hits before I can even get half way.

The monkey of dread on my back beating me every day.

So I sit writing bullshit that means nothing.

Words are easy when no one is facing back.

When nothing is at stake.

So many words I can use when I’m alone with my pen.

They fail me when I see her, this is my sin.

To remain alone, unloved, unfucked, and unfriended.

I want to taste her skin.

I want to make her laugh.

I want to make her cum.

I want to give her a tongue bath.

I want to know everything about her.

I want to give her the world.

But I can’t have anything I want, not the love of that beautiful girl.


Books of Poetry and Stories:


Why do I stare when I see your face?

Why do I look away and run from your space?


Why do you fill me with such dread?

Why do I run leaving all these things unsaid?


Why do I find you in my thoughts from dusk to dusk?

Why do you fill me with longing, desire and lust?


Why do i want to kiss you savagely from crown to twain?

Why do I want to ravage you with my passion again and again?


Why does the sight of you bring me joy?

Why do I shake like a child’s wind up toy?


Why does your face invade every fantasy?

Why do I want to bring you to ecstasy?


Why was it you and not someone else?

Why do you torment me and make me hate myself?


Why do I write about this because I cannot speak?

Why do I feel like a terrible, horrible, freaky, fucking creep?


Why does this hurt so fucking much?

Why do I yearn so much for your touch?


Why do I sit here with this paper and pen?

Why do I let you slip away in regret again?



Books of Poetry and Stories:

Passions and Dreams

Like a sweet dream, often glimpsed rarely seen.

You floated into my sight, and I was tempted beyond right.

Impossible it seems, this sweetest of dreams.

Filled with pure dread at the reality that will be said.

Still, I cannot deny what I feel.

A girl so cute it burns, over coals the spit turns.

I roast in my passions, while time marches in it’s fashions.

From the first moment seen, flames stoked to light the dream.

How I feel really isn’t right, but I am addicted to your sight.

No matter the pain of the dreams when impossible it seems.

Fear preventing words being said, desire overcome by dread.

To feel all this, and the tongue always remain still.

The wheel ever turns, and still my heart yearns and burns.

Rain pouring in it’s fashions, storms raging like my passions.

Words to remember the dream, hope dancing it is seen.

My brain filled with your sight, morning, noon, day, night, left, right.

No matter how it seems, you are the sweetest of all my dreams.

For all the dread, all the words left unsaid.

My heart beats faster still, quaking at the depths of what I feel.

Blaze me with your eyes I don’t mind the burns, the pain is worth the unending turns.

Eaten alive by my passions, while the world comes and goes in it’s fashions.


Books of Poetry and Stories:

The Lie

There is a lie we tell… That passion is like heaven or hell.

Truer to say it’s like a drug cartel. An obsession on which we dwell.

Love is the word we yell. Fucking is the drive that compel.

Such a cute girl with hair like caramel. Her smile for a while darkness dispel.

True I want to know her very well. But even more I want to kiss her citadel.

Make her reach heights of orgasmic decibel. She brings out the pervert within and propel.

Towards lust her sight does impel. Longing to unleash my sword and impale.

Taste sweat, skin, her scent inhale. Kiss every inch, lick the pastel.

If she’d be my honey, I’d be her carousel.

When you want it all, mind, body, heart and soul what line do you sell?

Romance, desire, lust, love… what does she want you to tell?

I’d give them all given the chance to excel.


Books of Poetry and Stories:

Your Own Troll

A moment catches on the heart when you spot a lovely face.

The wish for more fills every fiber of body and soul.

Fear of reality, it’s never as good as the dream.

Is the risk of a broken heart worth the chance at embrace?

Can a girl bring nourishment to a spirit so broken, burned like charcoal?

Will her touch, a kiss, an embrace be worth the pain and scream?

Negative and dark thoughts arise to overcome good, the mind does like to race.

She is right there, a chance, a taste, but it’s hard when you’re your own troll.

Stupid man running ahead, and behind, below and to the ground in extreme.


Books of Poetry and Stories:

Flower and Spirit

In the first rush of spring when a flower blooms, bring a light to the gloomiest place.

A spirit sees the flash and forgotten passion wakes, like a dream moving through space.

The gentle rose, a scent you long to kiss, a petal you await it’s soft caress.

Smile and the sun shines, a moment of succor in the swirling, unending distress.

Every sight brings a sigh, a whispering like a breeze in the patter of rain.

Tears from the heart, tremors inside, longing for the flower to ease the pain.

The light flickers, the gloom resumes it’s steadfast embrace.

The spirit hungers for the flower, while rose spotted red, the dream darkens like space.

The rose lashes with thorns, whip the flesh, ripping, never the soft caress.

A frown strikes faster, the smile becomes a taunt, cascade down the distress.

Each sigh a note of misery, reaching for the slapping petal, drowned by the rain.

A note of disharmony slices through putting teeth on edge, the flower is a blossom in the pain.

But still the flower remains, out of reach it seems, once more, always, and again.

A beauty, a demon, an angel shining brightly, a dragon breathing fire into my sin.

A dream floating freely on an ocean of needles, a lust unleashed from it’s cage now and then.

A pleasure to see, my destruction she be, a notion, a thought, a fantasy, reality death, till I’m freed from my vigil I wait till I know not when.


Books of Poetry and Stories:

Anxiety Bastard

Just a smile in the pouring rain.

Or a kiss, to soothe the souls pain.

Rush in the breast, beating it’s furious refrain.

Death of the mind, a hopeful bloodstain.

On and on the vision will go in vain.

Nothing but this addiction to a face I can’t abstain.

Is happiness for others? When darkness inside will reign.

Succor and sadness, to see her, and fear a word she deign.

Beat into pulp hope and love with every sight I gain.

Each time I go, the need grows, and the knowledge that I am bane.

Asking why she would see a thing of value in this pathetic frame.

Unobtainable the sought after heart I seek to attain.

To desire one so badly and have it torment one’s brain.

Inside a hunger to taste lips, like a fiend for cocaine.

Furious thoughts, anxiety, piercing the soul, it’s my chain.

Under a moon that sneers down on desires profane.

Look of innocence, so sweet, lust and desire I ascertain.

Leave me in a bloody pool with barbed words that pertain.

Tacit in my actions, what is felt, speech always restrain.

Obdurate in the face of what I obfuscate as happiness wane.

Many times the beat is broken and silence cuts twain.

Ears listen for a smile, but expect only disdain.

Abase on my fear, but it is the view of the view of this window pane.

Never before a feeling so strong as this campaign.

Deeply moving through, like a shock that will drain.

Intimate what you will, I believe my meaning is plain.

Wishing to be seen as more than a customer in your domain.

A man that may be interesting, a notion could you entertain?

Nerves break and the heart beats like a runaway train.

Tangible anxiety blowing through as a hurricane.

Hapless clown caught in illusions of his own legerdemain.

Eros and cupid, one and the same, ravage walking down my lane.

Reveal emotions coursing through, driving me insane.


Books of Poetry: