I heard him say my name
just as clear as these words you read
concise and with force
as if I were a child again
on the precipice of mortal danger
as if at any moment
I could very well cease to be
or perhaps
fall so far as to have never existed –
the tar melted
smelling of old lemon acidity
pooling in the low center
of a blackened tablespoon
70 brownish cc’s
sat, still warm in the syringe
I pictured his face
and took the plunge –
I heard him say my name
but he had been dead five years
my father called to me
and then left me to consider
the meaning
what does it mean
when  ghost calls your name….
was I supposed to stop….
was I supposed to act…
I shot the drugs
into my left armpit
and pushed the job offer away
I shot the drugs
into my left armpit
and let his voice carry me to sleep
I shot the drugs
into my left armpit
and threw another five
years into the addiction soup
giving it just enough temper
and spice
to block the sounds –
I often think back
to a double-wide trailer
just at the edge of Hubbard
and the night my father called my name
while I stooped
in a ****** slumber
considering what was to become of me –

You speak of love as if you should know it
But you have never fallen in love with a poet

You have never been captivated by a sentence or a phrase
A heartfelt tribute that would leave you weakened for days

You have never been held prisoner by a verse about love
A single idea expressed in rhythm that made you feel like you couldn't get enough

You've never read an emotion that broke your heart and broke you down
No, you've never loved so deep that you thought you might drown

I love you this way, the same that I love my lyrics
If you can feel what I feel, then tell me so I can hear it.

The pickaxe was charming
And you once were whole
But the tanned laborer
Burnt brown by the sun
Made the pickaxe sing
Whistle in the wind
You felt the impact
The pickaxe once so charming
Broke you in two
These broken rocks
Fields strewn with your saddest story
About how time erodes
And the hand of man
Destroys
You were there in the beginning
The earth started spinning with you
Your witness to creation
Your abysmal ghost
You were there in the beginning
And all your broken pieces
Your bitter memory
Will be there in the end
With words unspoken
Shouting louder than the dying sun
All your broken pieces
Will be there in the end
To testify

I thought I was in love once
But I was just the gum upon his shoe
I let him stomp all over me
While I stuck to him like glue

He told me that he loved me
Which is why in my impressionable youth
I thought "this must be the real deal"
I thought he spoke the truth

The next time someone confessed their love
I couldn't bring myself to believe
That someone could ever care for me
I thought surely they would leave

So I pushed them away, && they did just that
They left me in a hurry
By this point I was too damaged to see
That deep down I was worthy

You see once a person is broken down
Their heart can never go back
The pieces may stick back together again
But if you look, you can still see the crack

I'm trying to find my groove again
I haven't been able to feel the words that I type.
Its like nothing speaks to me now.
How can I fix this?
Any advice. Im reaching out to my followers..

I love villains in fiction
The ones that captivate you
From the moment they strut onto the scene
Who drives the plot better than the hero
The type of villain that can turn the story on its head
And shamelessly hurl it into chaos

Villains who are smarter deadlier yet somehow
More charming than the main character
Making you feel guilty for loving them
Their electricity surges through you  
Their presence echoes long after the story has left them
Searing your memory and leaving you begging for their return

If you're ever on the riverside
where the sun beats your head
you would see the old man
selling hats of palm leaf
but you care not to notice him
having already smelled the sea
and too keen to cross the river
travel southward on the island
till the saline wind scalds your eyes
your skins itch to jump into the waves
yet the man with the palm leaf hats
would not cease to tell you
how burning would be the sun on the sands
and so badly you need to protect the head
by parting bucks that mean nothing to you
but a world to the mouths he feeds
and before you stamp on him a final no
she has one atop her hair
beneath which her eyes flutter like butterflies
her sun rouged cheeks untimely blush
and two born anew lovers
merrily head for the sea
having bought romance
for forty bucks.