Golden Moment

Life is beautiful!

Despite it all

It’s beautiful orchestra plays on.

We think about the future:

“Tomorrow will be better,

I’ll plan today and play mañana,

Today is for the ‘morrow.”

It feels like a rehearsal practice

No real deal

You’re patiently waiting

All the while loosing today

Wake up and cherish

This closing moment

It’s golden, it’s true,

It’s all for you.


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Killing Time

Trying to make things happen

But nothing seems to take.

I want to get

to that quiet place

where everything stands still

and you know just what to do.

You’re thrilled!
But no not me, myself, or I.

Like Midas’ reciprocal

I turn my things to shit.

I try to strive

Yet time and time

My efforts aren’t rewarded.

For now I think I’m done

I’ll sit here; killing time

while really time is killing me.



I didn’t want to write this story. It came out of years of desperation. Years of trying to claim my peace and never reaching it. Years of abuse and mistreatment. Years of stupid gullibility, of neglecting my dreams, of putting myself second so that others may love me. We only have one life to live and it is our choices that define our reality.

My mind, my body has bared all that it can. It no longer works in the conventional way but now seeks vacations every so often because it cannot handle what I have made of myself. No I’m not a prostitute drug addict but I’ve been treated like one, despised like one, seen as one and by no others than my own clan, my flesh and bone, my family.

I never did anything to deserve my treatment but such is life, it gives what it gives and we make due and survive.

But I wanted to thrive to fly with the best of them to reach the heavens and touch the stars. I wanted to be one, a shiny shimmering spectacle. A beauty, not a beast. But I am a beast. A monster. A deformed and challenged being. I cannot walk on my own two feet again and like a paraplegic I spend most of my days in bed wasting my time away. Not knowing which way to go and waiting for death instead. But the breath of life still lives in me and I cannot take it away. I hold no power over my life let alone my death.

And then I think it is my curse. My eyes have seen and it was not good. But I am a beast and not a God. I cannot undo what has been done. This is my place, my lot to work, to churn, mull over and turn. But how to turn, how to harvest in a land that has been soiled and has no more? The land is dry and there’s no water. A few weeds grow but even they do toil. Though I’m young I’ve been made old before my time and like a bruised and battered fruit I am no good and start to spoil.

The flower of my heart has wilted and bringing light into the dark and desolate corners of that world only pains my tired eyes. I have been raised in darkness and now that light is at my door I cannot see.

I am a wild and tainted beast. Who can love me? Not even me.

I have a new blog

Hello fellow bloggers and readers.  Up until now I have tried to manage two blogs one was for my poetry another for my prose and other longer works.

With the start of this new year I decided to open up a third and brand new blog where I will be merging both of my previous blogs together.  I want to have everything in one place for the sake of sanity and consistency.

If you have enjoyed reading my articles, poetry, etc please visit and subscribe to my new blog Hell’e Chante  as I will be closing down my two previous blogs in the coming weeks.



The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


–Robert Frost