Once upon a time my truth became a lie, or something ugly to hide, for companionship from a guy who shamed my essence. I couldn’t write, could barely look myself in the eye. But in pain comes a lesson. I tried to blame him, but a lack of self-love was the real source of depression.


The poetry of life

Life’s poetry is read in the veins of the fallen leaf, in the scent of a distant lover blowing in the breeze. Listen for her lines in the rolling thunder. Feel the emotion of her verse as the unwanted fly takes liking to your shoulder. That little rock over there? He thinks he’s a boulder. Can’t you see? That’s the beauty of life. True reality lies in the eyes of the beholder.


I want a lot of things. I want to read. I want to write. I wanna call up a homie, spark a bowl, sit back & talk about life. I want to fast forward time, and I want it to rewind. I don’t want to search, but there’s things I need to find. I want to quit trying. I want to be content with where I’m going, where I’m at without judgement or strife. I want to be alone. Why won’t somebody hit my line? I want him to text me first. I want a commitment. I want to be promiscuous, our relationship inconspicuous. I wanna listen to the rain. I need some sunshine. I want to travel but… where should I reside? I want to save money. There’s so many things I need to buy! I don’t want to know the truth. I find comfort in believing lies. I want to be happy. My best work is the fruit of depression. I want to be a teacher. Too bad I’m busy learning a lesson. I want to be me. I want to be free. I really want a cookie, but I’d rather eat the dough. You know what I want more than anything at all? I want everyone to know my name while I remain unknown.



You could move half way across the world tonight if you wanted.

_________Or you could chill at the spot, break something down, and get blunted.

See the thing about people that’s funny—

________we forget we’re free.

We’re so quick to believe these mirages of limits

________that we try to control life instead of sit back and live it.

If only for a moment

I want you in my bed, but more than that, I want you in my head. Dance with my thoughts as they twirl through emotion. If I’m the needle, you’re the thread so, even if only for this moment, our realities are interwoven. Something like a potion is your energy. Please take these words as a token that I will never leave you with the truth unspoken. You are more than a simple memory. If this bond is ever broken, just know the reminiscence will be reverie.

The Story of the Necrophiliac

They were friends more than lovers. Still, every night, the pair slept together wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. It was only on rare nights he would penetrate her. This confused the woman, so used to men taking advantage of her sex. Here she was, lying naked every night– a woman in the flesh, ready to take his length at any moment. The man’s advances, though few and far between, always left the woman with quivering legs and the mattress puddled with her nectar. But the woman could never make the man finish. Often he would ask her to lay on her belly to stroke himself and come on the small of her back. But he had never come inside the woman. One night, she began to weep. Perplexed and stripped of her womanhood, she had tried many things to stimulate his desire, but to no avail. So she wept, and wept and wept. Nothing could comfort the woman but truth. What was wrong with her sex? After many tears the man admitted his cruel addiction. Incessantly he watches women on the screen insert household objects into her vagina. Cucumbers, razors, broom sticks. This ignited curiosity and an insatiable desire in the woman to please the man. She would do anything just to make him come. She let him insert in her a spatula. She let him insert in her a shower head, even a shower rod. Still, the man was understimulated and the woman’s desire to please him stronger than ever. The next night, when the man entered her room, she was naked, riding the bed post. Instantly he dropped his trousers to the floor and began toying with himself. She rode the bed post harder as he watched, harder as he tugged on his penis. He could not stand it any longer, he had to be inside her! The man threw her backwards onto the bed, jumped on top of her, ripped open her thighs and hastily entered her. For the first time, he came inside her. But the woman was not pleased. His penis no longer fulfilled her sexual desires. She craved other things now, other things inside of her. Of all the objects inserted in her, the bed post was her favorite, perhaps because she was in total control, total domination. Every morning when the man left for work, the woman would strip herself down, crawl to the foot of the bed, and climb on top of the bed post. Harder and deeper she rode it, deeper than it had ever been until it penetrated up through her entire body, shanking her to death from the inside. Returning from work the man walked in her room and found her limp body sitting atop the bed post. He wept for a moment, blaming the death of his lover on his own sexual fantasies. But something about her position awakened his sex. He slowly raised her from the post and laid her on the bed. The man gathered anything he could find to insert between her lips. Up and down, in and out he penetrated her with household items. He left her body there for several days, each night obsessing over a different object he would use to fill her. But this was not enough. Something about her stiff limbs and lack of response aroused in him a great sexual desire. He replayed in his head the image of her riding the bed post and was erect in an instant. The man inserted his length into the corpse. He came once, and again, and for a third time, never having felt this type of pleasure before. For some time, he repeated this act until he began to bore of the same woman night after night. He needed a new lover, but his desire now only satiated by the cold insides of a woman’s corpse. So he set out to find his next partner.
(Portrait by George Segal)