the rareness of a genuine smile – RIP Steve Hartman

the rareness of a genuine smile – RIP Steve Hartman

i could always count on this smile- never once let me down. Hey Steve,   I have been waiting for your call this week, we were going to see each other for the first time in a year.  We have … Continue reading

Rate this:

the foreverness of pavement

i saw a snail marching across the driest pavement

staring was all i could help but do

lost, i became, in the grace with which it left behind

a trail of iridescence


my presence neither feared nor hurried his march

for he knew only, not the end of the pavement



comfort, he finds in death; none but a machine finds pleasure in the foreverness of pavement.

the black velvet bow of time

i found within myself the crevices and reality

feeding swollen veins with unrequited heartache,

embracing the comfort held beneath the dull photographs [i call home]

ticking hands pounded violently between my saddened ears

branding each page of recollection with staggered syllables

tugging and prodding at the deception masked within your name


the memories became tangible and frail, i stood at a distance

visiting every instance of unpromise’s rapturous kiss

and watched as his hands united the black velvet bow

the crevices swallowed the loss of heartache’s scars

and plucked the crumbs of a poisoned lover’s foolish mess



i cannot bask beneath the rays of instances and photographs

for shadows mask the quiet wings of crevices and letting go

instead, i nestle in the arms of loneliness

finding forever in a day


“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.” -Ernest Hemingway

insanities deceptions

i know the past lays just as bitter

as the mistakes of our insanity

driving ourselves into the very hell

to which we despicably cringe

and have somehow [despite the odds] escaped


the deception, etches deeper

as we let each false pretense

slowly consume every blessing

swaying us from the truth

into a reality of darkness


choices, we have all made them

some more heinous than the rest

still, though every blunder pollutes each hope

time and perseverance repair

and molds us into a firm, solid soul


suffering we have laid upon the ones we love

is easy to escape through sorcery

and perfectly perfected cocktails of death,

but either path leaves us with the same results,

a dreadful past and a grueling road ahead


the only process that heals

tortuously burns us as we stumble through the fire,

melting away every ounce of dross

only to refines us as pure as gold

malleable, but no longer dosed with impurity



Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.”

-Albert Einstein