I was helping my
son with his homework
the other day.
For one of his assignments,
he had to write a
public service announcement.
He has been visited
by the muse
at an early age.
His goal is to publish
his first book by the
time he's 18.

It got me thinking about
my life as a writer,
and the young formative
years.
As a boy, I had a
broad imagination,
and much time alone.
I remember coming
up with plot lines in
my head, and then
writing little adventure stories.
My dad was a drama
teacher.
He directed four or
five plays a year.
I grew up watching
the classic plays,
and developing a love
for literature.

In Junior high,
I saw the power
of my gift.
I wasn't a popular
kid; somewhat of a
loner.
But one day in
English class, I wrote
a story about a
*****-headed hamster,
with an underbite-like
a French bulldog.
The other kids loved it.
They listened and laughed,
and applauded.
Words became my
new best friend.

I grew and leaned on
writing through the
good times and the bad.
They were warmth
In the long winters,
and rain in
springtime.
Through the alcoholic
haze of much of
my adulthood,
writing kept me sane,
and it gave me
the will to keep
living when the
pain grew into
a beast of its own...

My son hands me
his paper and it's
brilliant--it warns people
about the dangers
of cyber hackers, by
portraying the average
person surfing the net
as a lamb walking along
in the grass,
thinking life is grand just being
a sheep, when along
comes the wolf that pounces and
devours.
He finishes with,
'Don't let this happen to you.
Protect your computer and files
with such and such software.'

He asked me if I thought
he could be a good writer.
I laughed and told him
that he already was.

I’ll take a stroll
through wintry night air
to free my mind
from its dark wisps and snares.

While walking in the night’s leaden fog
that weighs upon both eyes and mind,
a building emerges from dampening slog
adorned with columns of marble refined.

The fog oppresses all the known world,
with eyes and ears slammed shut by fear.
Its thralls have spread, its pall unfurled
to wring out all sense of what was clear.

And yet: Here rises
from black fog’s embrace
the lights of a campus
that spite fog’s dimming wastes.

Upon building’s brow, above the main gate,
two words inscribed. Letters gleam through gloom
and icy tendrils of iron mist’s weight:
“Auditorium Maximum” —

— the place of the greatest hearing.
If only this hall could vastly hold
the sum of all in fog a-fearing,
to teach each to hear and be thus consoled.

To live in more than piecemeal peace
in a heartily hearth-warmed hall
where all must learn the art of hearing,
to share in the greatest art of all.

As I stand before the altar of knowledge,
‎I am reminded of the weight of expectation.
‎The toil of my guardians, the pain they've endured,
‎To give me the gift of education, and a future assured.
‎
‎There are no two ways about it, I must win.
‎It is not a choice, but a mandate from within.
‎I am a cub, looking up to the lioness,
‎Learning to roar, to conquer, to be the best.
‎
‎Education is the key that unlocks the door,
‎To a world of possibilities, and a future in store.
‎It is the gift that keeps on giving,
‎A treasure trove of knowledge, that keeps on living.
‎
‎So I'll take up the challenge, and make it my own,
‎To add value to myself, and make my mark known.
‎I'll strive for excellence, and never give up the quest,
‎For knowledge is power, and education is the best.

Ah, I would like to

educate my enemies --


And my friends as well.

What's the difference?

If any then there's plenty

Of many tears shared

Wear none of the brand labor

All my **** was hand me down

Thundercats drawers brawling in the halls

Four in the afternoon call for a ride home

Having poured from my cup a better potion

Love is a mixture of pain

Fed through a line in my vain

Of in these waken hours

Haveing to make believe in a convenient lie told

It's the old routine of long rides on short bus

Pride is usually just some cheap trinket pull out of pockets and shown

Once had a colorful backpack that had a blue dinosaurs on it with sunglasses

There was no running in the hall

A converted stager closet was my homeroom

The Image stuck in my head of bottles label with crossbones in the corner

The owners of what will become my inherit hurt

It not worth much these days

Said an old Jewish man at the pawn shop

He told me of the fights he once had in his front lawn as a boy

And sold me a toy gun

I talk funny and was thought of as queer

Left here cause I wasn't right

Led to believe that my existing was the product of American greatness

Said that if this was China I would be abraded at the age of twelve

If ever you could be love without never wanting to know pain

They mainstream you

Pick you first for their team

You ask a girl out on a whim

Her words wasn't meant to be kind

You hide behind head nods

Finding excuses not to read out loud

Used the one where there's something in your eye

And in the boys stall you stood till they call upon who ever next

Backwards written text

You're package as special

Lucky if you meet minimum wage of the age eighty

Taught by teachers that we was the product of crack fiends parents

Why even bother with college?

The fatherless ******* of slaves owners

A truth known to whites and blacks alike

Those of who you claim lack your intellect

Tell of none of my hurt

A lone inhabitant of a bitter earth

I bit of it sour fruit

Pour a cup of tea

That was neither hot or cold

I hold it to my lips

It not warmth or comfort I seek

But rather an uninvited truth

All that's known are the inherit lies of a puppet frog

For I am not the owner of sorrow but rather the borrower

Waiting for tomorrow as it only a day away

Who might I be then

A me that's slow but yet still flow from a stream out into a river

For I am the son who's the giver of his mother love

None of your words will be the sum of my faults

The vault that seal such memories that pain

And the healing words of a cartoon turtle

No matter how slow I travel I near ever closer in my journey