Inspired by the shootings in Santa Barbara…a poem.

Nice guys finish last, you say
Well, I’m not here to make your day
Not born to make you feel okay
Not going to let you have your way
You’re supposed to be nice, anyway.


Kyprios – Hate

Kyprios – Hate

Ok…so I still don’t know how it works with embedding videos that aren’t something I created…I mean, I get the logistics but not the legality. But I read that links are ok. And THIS is something that a very awesome person I know recommended for me and I am just in awe of the power of the poem and the bravery of the poet. Go watch. 


Cleaning out my filing cabinet last night, I stumbled upon yet ANOTHER half-filled journal. Man, people…STOP LETTING ME NEAR THE STATIONERY UNSUPERVISED!

Anyways, this one has another poem! I wrote it when I was nineteen years old, sitting in the kitchen of the very first apartment that I lived in alone. I actually remember writing it. No, that’s a lie, but I do remember writing other things in the book. Here it is. 


Trace the footsteps up the wall

Barely even heard them fall

But I still could smell them there

The scent of evil in the air.

Breathe it in, it tastes like hate

Murder lingers in this place.

Someone died here long ago.

Did I just see….yes, the room has grown!

The ceiling’s dripping blood on me

The walls are leaking, this can’t be!

I cannot die here, not tonight

I cannot die, this can’t be right!

And as the blood is choking me

As my final breath I breathe

One can hear my gurgled plea

“I cannot die here…Please help me!”

Boing, Boing, Boing

I learned something about myself today; I cannot compose on the computer.

It’s true. Something about the capacity to irretrievably delete text makes my brain melt and my ability to form intelligent, interesting sentences goes b-b-b-buh-bye. I have been writing down ideas to turn into snippets, poems, short stories, articles, posts, novellas, novels, epic texts, or volumes of any of these, but when I try to type it up… *poof*

Apparently I need the scrawling, scribbled out pages of unworthy text to sift through for the diamonds in the rough.

Also, taking care of a high-energy fifteen-month-old who likes to jump, climb, throw, tumble, run, dance, and cause an all around ruckus leaves me quite exhausted at the end of the day. After the Bubs finally knocks out, all I usually have the energy for is to space out on technology.

That all stops now!

Like a giant nerd I have established a curriculum to keep myself on task. Alternating weeks of working on fiction and non-fiction, with weekends saved especially for reading. And what a task just the reading shall be! I have three non-fiction books on the go (Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel; Kids Are Worth It by Barbara Coloroso; and Writer Mama by Christina Katz), as well as one novel (Under The Dome Part 1 by Stephen King), and oodles of magazines. Since deciding to give professional writing a serious shot I have subscribed to no less than five magazines, and purchased upwards of twenty.

*le sigh*

I also traded in my office chair for one of those posture balls, because bouncing is fun.


Don’t look at me

With that lust in your eyes

With the head between your thighs

I can read between

Your rehearsed lines.


Stay away from me. I don’t want to deal with your kind

I know what’s on your mind

So you can stop



Don’t think of me

I’ve let this go on too long.

Because I didn’t feel strong


To tell you this is all wrong.  —2010



A fly on the wall of her room.


it will all be over soon.


she doesn’t feel the blade.


she doesn’t miss the vein.


the room starts to spin.


her body giving in.


she sees the light.


into the eternal night.   -May 2004

Little Miss Depression

Little Miss Depression

with a tear in her eye,

Pushed the blade in deeper

and prepared herself to die.

Little Miss Depression

with her face to the sky

Popped another sleeping pill,

and washed it down with rye.

Little Miss Depression

does not believe in pain.

She pulls the knife out of her heart

and stabs it in again.

Little Miss Depression

tightens up the knot.

Puts her head into the noose,

and jumps off the table top.

Little Miss Depression.

Her body dangles in the air.

She finally got what she wanted

But now she doesn’t care.   -May 2004

What Am I?

I am a dangerous creature,

Lurking in the most surprising places.

I stalk the innocent

And hurt millions of people.

Nobody knows where I came from

And nobody can get rid of me.

I will wreck your life

And the lives of those you care about.

I don’t know who you really are

And I don’t want to learn.

I choose my victims based on their


So you cannot escape me.

I have many friends

And enemies as well.

My name is Prejudice.

We may have already met.    -Apr 27/2000



Today I found some old poems while digging through boxes in the garage. When I say old I mean, like, from decades ago. I will dispense some of these poems…now…

Two Faced 

Smiles in the sun

Frowns in the darkness of rain

I embrace it all.     -May 2/1998




Time flies by.

When you’re having fun.

Watch.   –Apr 27/2000


The past is haunting


Whispering sweet nostalgia


Desires in my ear.

Bribing my mind



With empty promises.

The present is unwinding


Robbing me slowly of


I’ve come to know.

Killing my mind



With reality overload.

The future is lurking


Waiting around each corner


For my next arrival.

Writing my mind.

My heart.

My soul.




Fear and Laziness

“…what are these barriers that keep people from reaching their potential? The answer to that can be found in another question, and that’s this: which is the most universal human characteristic – fear or laziness?”
– line from the movie ‘Waking Life’

It’s one thing for me to say that I want to be a writer, and a completely other thing to do the writing.

Scratch that.

It is a completely other thing to allow human beings, those capable of critical judgment anyhow, to read the aforementioned writing. That may well be the end of me…

Doomed before I even truly begin. Potential wasted. Opinions repressed. Hopes and dreams suffocated beneath the weight of my insecurities.