A (wise) man of two faces
Musings, commentary, and the occasional parade of novelty.

Updates Tuesday and Thursday

Book 1 for sale:

Tongue-tied

Goddamn frustration
for all the words inside me
that have no outlet.


The sunrise screams

I just want to sleep
but I remain haunted by
a vivid nightmare
which followed me past the dawn,
despite all my defenses. 


Unbridled

I’ve been beaten,
kicked around,
insulted,
embarrassed -

My pride still burns.


Oversaturated

You grab life by the throat
and wring your hands,
squeezing out the last drops
before drinking your bitter tea. 


Golddigger

The sweat on my brow
is the mark of my efforts
to forge a future
for myself, my family,
and all of those whom I love.


Hard-handed

I listen to each creak and moan
of this aging body of mine,
it’s quiet metronome
slowly counting out the time.


Happy birthday to me


#:) 

Wake

“Tell me what to say,”
he pleads into the night sky.
And while the Gods weep,
the darkness only echoes,
requesting words of its own.


Stormfront

Times are a-changing
but the turbulence ahead
will forge me anew.


Threadbare

Little glass doll, little glass doll,
why do you cry?
How did the ocean inside you
light a fire ‘round each eye?

Little glass doll, little glass doll,
why do you break?
Why is it that you fall apart
when we’re fighting for your heart?

Little glass doll, little glass doll,
why do you bleed?
Please get up and follow our lead -
we’ll teach you how to get what you need.

Little glass doll, little glass doll,
why did you fall?
We tried and tried and gave it our all -
why couldn’t you let down your wall?


Lift

May the winds of change
carry you into the sky
and to great fortunes.


Christmas gifts

I’ve had two wonderful years working on this blog and with it being the holidays, I’d like to give some back to you wonderful people.

What would you like to see more of on this blog?  More content?  Different content?  Please let me know - what would like to see?


Mnemosyne

These nostalgic songs
pluck at the strings of my heart
with practiced fingers.


Rosy

Our memories are
a foggy glass through which we
gaze into twilight.


Name of the night

I have seen my shadow
and given him a name
and ever since that day
I have never been the same. 


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