Eye Contact Award Winner in Genre Flash Fiction -Spring 2025 Edition | Published with SFS Publishing & Querencia Press | Top 50 Knockout Writer 2024

THE LIGHT

My best work is reserved for literary journal submissions. Please enjoy my archive of currently available poems.

2025

...to be written

The words will come to me soon.

2024

Pigeon Wine

For the birds

a backroad puddle

is holy water,

and my breadcrumbs,

their communion.

Scarlet Sacrifice

Lonesome leaf.

How scary it must be

to jump first.

But fear not, dauntless red one,

for the martyr is always remembered.

Wind Catcher (19th Place)

Curious fledgling,

leaping from that ledge—airborne,

over land unseen.

Once Upon A Star-Filled Sky

Dedicated to my best friends

on their 15th Wedding Anniversary.

Congratulations Daniel and Christina

Twas a long time ago,

longer than it seems,

in a place

between sleep and awake,

when I happened upon you,

and took seat beside you

in a dream while I was adrift.

And much like today

it was just us,

drifting and laughing,

gazing at a pixie-dust sky.

And even then

it was plain to see

that our love was written

in the cosmos

long before we met

and will remain

as stardust

long after we part.

the astronaut

His eyes

explored the void

frantically,

and his hands clawed at the emptiness

for meaning and purpose,

yet he grasped nothing.

he catapulted

through the universe

at the speed of light

without coordinates

to a destination unknown.

He was a castaway

naked and afraid.

time was his space ship.

Let's Kill The Dinosaurs

I feel you approaching.

Your vibration sends shockwaves

through the universe.

Icey shards of shattered men

are diminished to dust in your wake,

and without a second glance,

they slip off your shoulders,

never to be remembered,

forever floating in a vat of darkness.

Every inch closer

threatens my atmosphere,

to breach my way of life.

My instinct is to brace for impact,

go fetal

hope for a near miss,

yet my pulse leaps feverishly through my skin,

and my sky’s partway

as I invite a collision course

for lust and desire,

and certain death.

You’re inescapable.

and I realize it’ll soon start again,

the birth of another decade

the scorching of my entire surface

and the draining of every last resource,

just like last time.

Even if it kills me,

I yearn for one more moment with you.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, let’s kill the dinosaurs.

Perpetual Carpool

The radio

plays the same song as yesterday,

as the day before,

and the day before that.

I’m waterboarded by a tsunami

over and over

because I refuse to forget

what you sound like,

and I’ll continue to suffocate without you,

and I’ll continue to listen to my favorite song.

the Eastern Star Rises

The eastern star rises

and kisses the unattainable foothills.

A spring flower breaches permafrost

and defies its winter coffin.

A butterfly straddles a tulip

and its color grows more vibrant.

A new day,

A new growth,

A new beauty.

and A new you.

Pyromaniacs

Tantric coil—friction.

Ember glow. Thermal ignition.

Tameless firestorm.

^^They Sent Mercedes

She preened her slender legs—

her hedged bet he’d spend three checks, yet

Herschel knew better.

He knew they’d send the best henchmen,

hence, Mercedes—

hell’s ember wedged between her fervent legs, yet

he’d been prepped.

He knew regret when he’d seen her.

They sent Mercedes. The nerve, he dwelled.

She held her beer between her knees.

The breeze held her fresh sweet essence, her deflected beset.

Her beveled dress pestered Herschel’s greed, yet he sneered.

he knew he’d better let the temptress be.

He set the scene:

She’d embed her Messer, sever Herschel’s spleen.

He’d bleed beets between her desert velvet sheets, yet

He decreed he’d best her; she’d bleed Herschel’s green beret.

Yes, she’d bleed green.

He eyed her red pepper dress, Her Welsh legs, her green eyes,

then freed the wench.

Mercedes fell deep. He regretted they sent her.

Natural State

Endless forest,

natural state,

we douse the flame.

Too often we intervene

without foresight, but

burning is crucial,

and historic.

We must watch the flames eat the past,

clear the deadfall for new growth.

Let it burn,

and save your water.

2023

*Morning Commute (Winner)

The man sleeping

upon the bus stop bench

blocking your view

of this month’s

burger ad,

paid for by the fast-food joint

around the corner,

is hungry,

and his name is Bert Huggins,

if you cared to know.

^^ Breathing In the Sun

Purple ribbons wrapped in pink.

Icey kisses grazing cheek.

Asphalt drumming underfoot.

A whitetail alerts the bevy.

Stubborn apples softly swaying.

Blurry blanket loosely hanging.

Gravel quelling underfoot.

A warbler performs her shanty.

Starry pupils fading faster.

Dragons’ breath exhaling vapor.

Acorns grinding underfoot.

A rabbit scampers the gully.

Smokey Mountains blue and grey.

Mindful troubles drift away.

Sandstone scuffing underfoot.

A human inhales life’s privy.

^^Windy City Farewell (Winner)

Fingers gliding

over lacquered Ash,

as a soldier waits

hoping he get lucky fast.

Losing memories

at the bottom of a glass

he orders another

flaunting his active-duty cash—

a beacon for the piranhas,

but every once in a while,

along comes a shark.

He had a plane to catch

a trigger to pull,

but not before he pulled the trigger

one more night in Chicago.

He was a shooter from the hip

in more ways than one,

and a glutton for punishment

knowing all the right places to find it,

except tonight

the man with a propensity for pain

never saw her coming.

---

She exhaled a silky stream—

a Cross breeze

pushing through the haze.

His shoulders grazed

as sweet vapor wrapped round

to arouse his war-torn face.

He was deeply engaged

with the scarlet woman

from Sixteen and Belmont,

a bitter rival whose red dress

left little to the imagination,

yet despite her blatant promiscuity,

his ears perked with intrigue

at the chance that

the grass on the other side

was greener indeed,

and in one breath

her smoky invitation

arrested his attention

exposing his salacious greed.

Was it a lucky strike

for a woman pushing thirty

or was it her experience

that made the man from Kansas

do a double take?

---

It wasn’t long

before the lady in red

sealed her fate with a fatal flaw

while the Black Mantis stirred her straw.

Ta, Ta…She thought.

Only amateurs excuse themselves

to the powder room

before closing the deal,

and a professional needs little time

to move in for a steal.

She inhaled his vulnerability with poise

and delivered a seductive plume

against his cheek,

a kiss from the Windy City herself,

then returned to sipping her French Seventy-Five.

She’d been playing hard-to-get long enough to know

he’d steal a peek.

Then he stole a peek.

Now, Charles was a gambling man,

and tonight, he thought he’d hedge his bets.

Whats the worst that could happen?

Tomorrow, he had a one-way ticket to certain death.

But before the ladybird returned refreshed

the Mantis had him spending his entire check—

he was “All in” on black

and they were gone before Ms. Red ever came back.

The Stroll

He rose

from his bed

against

the doctor’s orders,

and took a walker-abetted trudge

down the nursing home hallway,

and down memory lane.

He’d find her

if it was the last thing

he’d do,

and if it killed him

it’d all be worth it.

and he did,

and it did,

and it was,

and in each other’s arms,

they were.

The Highwire Prince

I rose first

like most mornings,

navigating space and time

and balancing the fragile tight-rope

of two dimensions.

Caught between

fears and dreams

laying hidden within the creases of her mind,

I rolled my heels

onto my toes

and placed dampened footfalls

that invoked

the envy of a dropped pin.

Dark collided with light,

and I transformed into

a slow and steady hunter

camouflaged by apparitions

made of car lamps and taillights

while stalking my undergarments like prey,

never wavering from the stoic gaze

I held on my sleeping beauty.

It’s in these moments

between her rises and falls

when even my heart stops beating

to match her rhythm

and with patience,

I await her release

so, I can move and breathe

once more.

She always asks

why I never wake her,

and the simple answer is

I want her to remain

in that castle in the sky

for as long as possible,

to live out her dreams

right now

because there’s no promise

of a tomorrow,

and no guarantee

that any of my made-up imaginings

she willingly believes in

will ever come true.

So, sadly today

there will be no kiss

for a slumbering princess

to avoid waking her

from those faraway places

she returns each night to visit,

but there will be a storybook ending

waiting on a hotplate

next to a pile of bacon,

and a pint of syrup.

And only when she beckons

for her bearded nobleman

eagerly awaiting

for her hair to be let down

and his name to be summoned

will it be delivered

because a Prince’s only job in fairytales

is to rescue

and sweep her off her feet,

No matter which realm

she chooses to be.

Swimming Lessons

Money doesn’t make the man,

his word does,

but loose lips grow quiet

in dark alleys,

not Nasdaq floors,

so, any decent man

would be detoured

from doing the right thing,

especially one with

mouths to fill

and a roof to keep.

I hang my head low

watching the ground move

beneath me as I walk home.

My pride and ego

both cleansed by the

emptiness of the morning,

but it’s within the shadows that I blend in.

I wear the black for them.

Upon my broken back

they eat their breakfast,

and wash it all down

with discounted milk

and cartoon giggles,

using my stained shirts as napkins.

I don’t care

because as long as they’re full,

they sleep well,

and make it to the bus on time

I am doing something right.

God knows there Ain’t much

I’ve gotten right,

but I’ve never begged, borrowed,

or cheated to survive.

Some do

and some win,

but most pay the price.

Living among the filth

keeps you true,

and most of the time

the truth is all you have—

And being quiet

adds another box on that calendar

to be Ex’d

filling you with the hope

that you’d be lucky enough

to find a way out

before it’s too late.

Even if all the riches

filled every ocean,

today’s children would drown

trying to swim them

because uncharted waters

and false horizons lead to certain death—

But wearing a suit of black

can be a heavy burden

dragging you under just the same,

especially as the riptide of the world

pulls at you.

So, why teach them how to wear that heavy suit?

Because I want them to struggle enough

to learn how to swim upstream,

and be learned enough to know

when the water’s too rapid

to get out.

I want them to hold their breaths knowing

that air will eventually come back

and they will resurface

because every night

they watched their dad disappear into the shadows

always bringing the sunrise back with him.

I want them to think

if he did it

then they could too.

Flight School

The runway’s clear

and the echelon

loops back

for the second time;

The first time,

was to calculate

wind speed

and direction

then scan the airstrip

for outliers.

Descending westward

they approach,

first over the treetops,

then above the powerlines,

and before long

they’re buzzing the tower—

my whole porch rattling

as they glide past

swooping broken corn stalks

inches from mud.

The captain in the front

lifts his nose,

tucks his tails for drag

and the rest follow suit.

They apply their brakes in unison

reversing thrust,

and as if guided expertly

by a magnetic field

he lands his crew safely.

It's in these short-term

flight tests

early in the morning,

where the visibility

hangs questionably

in the air

when nature shows you

how insignificant you truly are.

It’s then,

you realize

how much life

goes on around you

and will continue

to go on

without you.

Zip code

Storms pass,

but many will follow,

how frequent

depends on the zip code,

and drowning under the downpour

of an inebrious squall line

inflicts dual sensory loss,

as thunder always confirms lightning.

But the storm passes regardless,

leaving behind

a devastation worse than the last,

forcing you to become

the clean-up-crew

of your own disaster relief

and like every time before

you find yourself

sifting through the rubble,

spiritless and disoriented

hoping to salvage what's left

of the cracked frames,

shattered dreams,

and the memories of better times

when the winds were less turbulent.

Storms pass,

but many follow,

how frequent

depends on the zip code.

So, if you're fed up with living

in Tornado Alley,

change your address.

Post-It-Note for the Queen

I love you,

more than all the words that I could ever arrange when describing my feelings for you.

I write you,

with my own red ink, into a boundless book, where every page is a new canvas for an unexplored memory that is soon to be written, and my heart is your bookmark.

I offer you,

a speechless love, where every glance I steal, is a syllable with a poetic intonation, and every touch we make is a sentence that runs on infinitely.

I whisper,

every open wound, my biggest fears, and reveal my deepest truths into your precious ear while you are sound asleep, living in another world, where I hope, you don't forget to wear your crown.

The Coal Miner

At first you were reluctant.

In fact, you turned away.

Perhaps it was too dark inside,

or too dangerous for you to stay.

But your urge to find a diamond,

among the heaping piles of coal,

overcame your impulses to avert the dangers,

and so, you entered bravely with a pick axe, and a hoe.

You dug it deep, and trenched a path,

to the center of that pitch-black mine.

And when you finally struck a bleeding heart,

You had met me for the first time.

“Hello.” I echoed out of the darkness to you,

reaching out my trembling hand.

You said “Hey” in return, and introduced yourself.

Now our conversation has yet to end.

You shined my heart, polished my soul,

and smoothed down the jagged bits of remaining coal.

You formed and formed me, then sharpened my lines,

and turned me from a crumbled stone, into one that brilliantly shines.

Now, I grab my tools with no exit or return time,

to step deep inside your shaft-tunneled mine.

I begin to dig down, blazing inside you a new ditch,

With no intentions to stop, until I too, strike it rich.

Burning a Wallflower

She melted into the wall—

a Black Dahlia

growing from plaster.

Her eyes

contained a secret garden

she vowed to hide from the world,

especially a stranger like me,

but when she caught me burning her image

into my mind

from across the room,

our souls fused

and she had me

drowning in her sea of white

swimming for her emerald islands

gasping for air.

“And then, the Sky Fell,”

and I fell

underneath her surface,

only to die

and be reborn,

as hers.

Hot flashes or Anxiety?

I couldn't figure out

how the room got so hot, so quick

until I caught him.

Laser Beams can burn a hole

through a woman

if a man isn’t careful,

but he had a way about him

that could pierce

a woman's armor

yet leave her heart unscathed.

There was a darkness

in his eyes

containing all his demons,

but the way he looked at me that night,

made the room

wrap around me

until all the air was squeezed out

and I was gasping for more.

“And then, the Sky Fell.”

and I fell

under his scorching heat

only to die

and be reborn,

as his.

^^ Write For No one (Winner)

Of all the ways

words can be expressed

it’s impossible to know

if what one imparts

into the world

will be impactful enough

to leave a mark

at any depth

under any person’s skin

nor

is it reasonable to assume

someone

will catch on

to your words

during your lifetime

considering the best ones

are beloved

long after they’re dead.

Therefore,

a poet’s obligation

is simple:

You must

speak for yourself

satisfying every compulsion to communicate

before all else

because in your world

your words matter the most.

You must

jot down anything

that excites your heart enough

to leap from your chest

because if passion isn’t pumping out of you

then you’re already

more than halfway dead.

You must

archive every sentiment

flooding your mind

without restraint

or influence

because when your voice departs this realm

a unique frequency will be left behind

connecting us with you

in the afterlife.

and

most importantly

You must

never hold back the truth

even if it kills you

because in an age where honesty is hard to come by

your words could empower

a bullied child

to muster the courage to say “NO,”

or a mother with a swollen jaw

to regain the proper footing to walk away,

or a divided nation

to disassemble their broken machine

only to rebuild it again so it runs new.

and

you must

do this all

without an audience in mind,

without a contingency plan,

without love or praise

cheering for you at the finish line,

and without tomorrow

because there may never be a

tomorrow.

Now

is when a poet should write.

You should write selfishly,

be unrelenting with your words,

and tell it raw—

Speak Fucking Raw!

Who cares who you please

or if it's politically correct?

Who determines what’s right anyway?

As a poet

you must be willing to rebel,

and do it often

because who else will?

You should

write a beginning

sometimes skip the middle

and always leave out the end

because dreams

are only dreamed

when free thought

is given room to exist

not

when they’re charted out for you

to the very end,

and

A Good Poet

is a cartographer of the heart

who doesn’t point you to a definitive X

on a hand-drawn map,

but instead

helps you navigate

to the buried treasures deep within.

The poets

who write for themselves,

who think for themselves,

who are their authentic selves,

will write for everyone.

So,

at all costs,

write for no one.

A Mother's Sunrise

First light

over mountains.

The brightest blue eyes

you’ll ever see.

My sunrise peeks

above the footboard horizon.

—My baby.

Happy Mother’s Day

for me.

My Home Is You

Despite the fiercest wind

whipping at our walls,

or a raging fire

blazing up the yard,

Enwrapping myself with your ocean eyes

will always protect me.

Mushroom clouds could fill the skies

atoms to dust, a certain demise,

or a seething mob

with pitchforks and cries

may beat upon our door,

but it’s surrendering myself within your arms

that forever shelters me.

The entire world

could crumble down

or the perfect storm

may turn around,

should time’s keeper

come to clock me out

a wayfarer of the cosmos I’d become,

but no matter where my feet may roam

I know I’d never be without a home

—because my HOME is always in you—

Baptism by Rain

Just like swimming in the pouring rain,

your presence alone tingles my skin,

as millions of your tiny oceans splash against me all at once.

With goosebumps of yearning reaching through my skin-wrapped soul,

I am drenched in your symphony of adoration,

and bathed in your showers of rehabilitation,

left drowned in your puddles of commiseration.

My sins now, are washed away in your purity,

and as I rise from the depths of what was once a dried-up lake, now refilled.

I emerge a better man.

Falcon On Fire

Out of the desecrated rubble,

through the impenetrable smoke,

emerges a figure.

A fiery trail of ash and ember cascade in its wake,

and a perfect sun burns at its core.

A flaming light, a brilliant beacon.

The Phoenix.

A raptor with unmistakable talons,

grabbing its prey with deliberacy and precision.

Don’t be so quick to set aside the feat,

because it wasn’t always this way.

It had to die to get here.

An entire forest burnt to the ground to nourish it.

A path of bodies lay crumbled in its aftermath.

And it wears their skin to commemorate the suffering,

never forgetting how it was created,

never to forget the agony it sustained,

and never forgetting what it felt like to burn alive.

Straggling Lyricist

Let your words be the wind that lifts you,

and may the wind become a jet stream that

blows you fiercely around the globe.

Find solace and shelter within the microphone.

Words become a wind

A dusty drifter’s jet stream

Gusting befalls him

*Till the Gallows Do We Part (Winner)

No promise can be forcibly broken

if we insist that nothing comes between us.

This cloth sundering our lips

is merely the grand drape of our affaire—

Never their barricade to our love.

Our passion is an insurgency that will blaze on post-mortem despite it.

A linen kiss;

Our crowning embrace until we head for the gallows.

The audience clusters outside to behold the finale of our melodrama,

and I yearn for your naked touch once more.

We squeeze with the thrills of memories afar.

and soon memories afar are all we’ll be, but not without this last mutiny.

Our love is why we’re here

so, it’s only fitting that this is how we’ll part.

If only we had run away instead,

we could’ve left our decrepit marriages dust-bound—

Never stealing from our spouses their lives,

but we wanted each other so badly, we consummated our new life with murder.

As the noose is placed around our necks, our future is revealed;

It used to be a cabin in the woods—creek side in autumn.

A rope swing hung from a front yard maple; A few leaves fluttered down.

Our kids chased the dog in the yard or she was chasing them. We never knew.

but now this Townsquare has become our château des bois and our maple has been cut and

formed into a stage with a drop floor and a single rafter.

I'm glad the rope still swings freely.

Lines of blood form our signatures on death certificates,

as the last words from condemned lovers are confessed.

“Our love was a sin coiled around our hearts,

and we were unconscious of it until we’d became its servant.

We stand proud of our reasons, but not our actions.

Our admission heeds a warning to any lovers too weak to see it through, like us.

I did the deed myself and she drew up the plans. For our love, for everything that we ever felt,

and for the possibility of true happiness we would do it all over again, tomorrow.”

The floor opens…

...Catherine Miller and George Smith parted ways at the Gallows on Feb 3rd, 1881. It was 11:20 am.

The clouds shed not one tear for them. It was a relatively sunny day.

the Painting:

The Lovers (Les Amants) by René Magritte

1928. Oil on canvas, 21 3/8 x 28 7/8" (54 x 73.4 cm)

Where the Sun Doesn't Shine

Bury me

where the sun doesn’t shine

and lay me to rest

once more

under the old oak tree,

where we once

held hands,

where I

stole my first kiss,

and

where you

loved to read

to my illiterate brain

even though it never

made me smarter—

I always daydreamed

to your voice.

I always fell asleep

to your words.

I’ll gladly take root

in that tree,

for it holds

the only memories

of my life

that matter

and probably

the memories of

a few men before me.

It’ll just be me

and a couple of guys

reliving our best times

falling in love

forever.

To Be Heard

The man without a voice, obtains one.

A life full of deaf ears,

never being listened to.

He lived on the fringe;

Out of their trash-bins,

feeding off the scraps they shoved into him,

like he was a baby bird,

yet he was hungry,

and ate any piece of meat,

regardless of its authenticity,

He was either stuck in the nest until he died,

or forced to jump out.

A spiral straight to the bottom,

he fell flat, but now had a story to tell.

His written words carefully chosen,

inked into a font that sets the mood,

and placed on uniformed paper as if he’s in control,

as if there is order in his life,

as if he is preparing his last will and testament.

The importance of detail is crucial, this may be his only shot.

He layers his compilation like a baker building a cake.

A life full of stories, Oven set to 450.

A speechless assault on society,

An examination of the human soul,

an autopsy of himself.

An opportunity to entertain, to uplift,

to speak from the heart without ever having to say a word in front of a crowd,

because people scare him;

Trust doesn’t come easy anymore.

He unclogs his arteries,

filled of repressed suffering and inflicted pain,

then soaks the pages with new blood.

Sealed and bound into a time-capsule,

he then shares with the world.

He gains a watchful eye, attached to a mind, attached to thoughts,

and can now send sparks of inspiration directly into their souls.

An electric connection of black and white;

A static symphony of contrast.

The simplicity in his words forms a complex message,

asking questions and demanding answers.

and a man who never had a voice,

now sends shockwaves around the world.

to be heard.

^^The Exhibit (Winner)

There’s a room filled with art

that all the world can see.

It has no doors,

no entry fees,

no pretentious curator

to patronize you.

Its walls connect horizons

and are lined with canvases

with empty faces,

and we cannot see their beauty

nor their flashy paints

because we walk on by with our heads down.

There’s a room filled with art

that all the world can see.

Every piece is displayed the same:

at eye level

dangling upon showcase sheetrock—

an amber bulb

affixed above each frame,

but we never notice their spotlight

or read the fine print

scribbled on their attribute labels.

We don’t engage.

We never ask,

why their pale complexion

or seek the stories behind their pasty fabrics

because we walk on by with our heads down.

There’s a room filled with art

that all the world can see.

Every Canvas is a memoir

sealed behind the brushstrokes

of road-tripped panoramas

fading into a falling sun,

silhouettes of love and loss

crossed out by

life’s lateral lines,

and geometric placeholders

for friendships ended too soon,

yet not one bystander

stops to turn them over,

to observe the splendor

of life’s delineations

drifting off their varicolored edges,

because they walked on by with their heads down.

There’s a room filled with art

that all the world can see.

An exhibit

free-falling through a vacuum

bound for a black hole,

and you too are on display.

Like the others,

you hold your gaze at eye level,

concealing your beauty

behind that dismal face,

and you pose

for the crowded boulevards,

soaking up the city sweat,

tasting the stench

of their civic halitosis,

forcing a smile

while eagerly awaiting

their precious praise

like a feening addict,

but they never engage.

No one steals a look

or lifts a brow.

No one cares about you.

You’re not entertaining enough.

You’re not pretty enough.

You’re too fat.

They’re too busy for you.

So, they just walk on by with their heads down

bumping your shoulders as they pass

as if you're a ghost,

who’s been forgotten

before anyone

ever knew you were there.

but you are there,

aren’t you?

^^5 AM (3X Winner)

This moment of silence is just for me.

Cut out of a time when sleep is avoided,

I sit alone.

A bird chirps a song of morning dew,

and sometimes others join in.

A chorus ensues.

The sun has hours to arrive.

Once in a while, the hiss of a car zips through.

Moisture on tires ripping across asphalt,

then back to silence.

There’s something in the silence that can’t be engineered.

Because it’s more a feeling than a sound.

There are always sounds, but not always peace.

and peace is everything in a world where there is none.

So, I sit alone and steal this moment for myself,

while you lay and dream of better years,

better days,

or better moments to come.

I wait patiently inviting the sun to peek its curious eyes over that mountain

so when you wake, I can greet you with a peaceful start to your day.

Your smile is worth the deprivation I endured.

Eviction Notice

Too many times

you’ve needed a place to crash,

and I said no,

but caved despite it.

This toxic love

is our perpetual demise,

our Tango de la Muerte.

Once inside

you smash up my walls

slash the chaise and pillows

then refuse to leave when asked.

Never again!

Your memories are on the lawn,

along with all the years of your shit.

And you're no longer my tenant

Effective Immediately.

The Reader

Use your blade shaped with vowels,

to cut me deep through the vein.

Hang your noose made of verbs,

So, I may cross over that plane.

Kill me with your story,

Then bring me to life with your words.

Stitch me back up,

only to tear me apart from the herd.

Let me read one more saga,

and begin where I did start.

Let me feel what you felt,

When you wrote the pages from your heart.

^^Plucked

It’s true

an apple

never falls

too far

from the Braeburn tree,

that’s just how Gravity works

unless,

it's picked

and carried away

by Someone

who stopped to appreciate

the potential

within its center,

or if by some miracle

it catches the right roll

on the right day

during favorable weather,

and it continues onward

until reaching the very end

of a rugged and winding footpath.

It is only then

that the destiny

of it rotting

under the same branches

as it’s siblings

will be averted,

and only then

will it become more

then a moldering corpse

atop a grassy grave,

like the fermenting tree

that bore it,

but instead,

be celebrated

for the raw sweetness

contained

just under its skin.

^^The Current (Grand Prize Winner)

…Yanked from the grotto.

Flung into the torrent sea.

Unable to swim.

Dark water teaches

young lungs how to pressurize

the deeper they fall.

Yet, you equalize,

and learn to bring extra air

to roam the trenches.

Some stay down too long,

some are sucked by the riptide.

Few breach the surface.

But, if you’re lucky

You’ll find a grotto on shore

to die peacefully…

Reclaimed

I am not what you label me to be,

though you feel compelled to tell me what you think—

that I’m a scumbag,

a lost soul,

useless to society.

But your words don’t define me.

I’ve already heard them—

from my family,

from myself,

from strangers on the street.

At the end of the day,

only I determine how my name will read.

---

It’s all too easy to say, “Just leave,”

but have you ever felt love’s iron fist strike you on your cheek?

Have you put in the time to heal your wounds,

to stay loyal to the one you vowed you’d never leave?

It’s harder than you think,

especially when you’re clinging to the hope that things will change.

It’s harder than you think.

“Why won’t she just leave?

She’s gutless. She wants it…

She’s obviously weak.”

But those words won't define me,

because I carry more strength behind my swollen eye

than you produce in fifty-two weeks.

And soon, I will break free.

---

My armor’s not here by choice—contrary to belief.

It’s not a product of laziness,

lack of drive, or

absence of accountability.

You chisel my exterior with your daggers and blades,

your words seek to carve “perfection."

My armor exists, in part, as a response to your misguided deeds—

a reflexive shield against the poison you release.

My armor protects me.

Your words don’t define me.

I am more than skin deep.

My body's molded with perseverance,

shaped by the hope that one day

I will be happy.

And I am happy—

I am not your freak.

---

Look at you, looking at me.

It seems you’re trying too hard to steer my ship,

when, in fact,

it’s you who’s lost at sea.

I am not a label, a bruise, or what I eat.

I’m not what society deems proper,

but I AM UNIQUE.

So, you worry about you,

and I’ll define me.

Bastion

I exposed my soul

to a page for the first time

after a girl rejected me in high school.

I opened the portcullis of my fortress to her,

only to be told I couldn’t be her king—

and I wouldn’t be her knight either.

She did, however, entertain court jester.

I found myself picking up pieces of my heart

from the cobblestone

after she catapulted my towers with repudiation—

my perimeter crumbling on all fronts.

My ego was decapitated in one abrupt swing,

its head brutally affixed to a hundred-foot stake

for the world to see—

making a mockery of a young man’s attempt at love.

But I rebuilt.

I used my spilled blood

to build a moat around my kingdom,

filled it with acid and alligators,

then sewed my scars onto banners

to be hung as heraldry on the exterior walls.

I plastered her image into the joints,

knowing it would harden stronger than mortar,

then withdrew my bridge—

thwarting all newcomers for years to come.

The only map leading back to the kingdom

was drawn in a notebook,

lost on a single page,

and signed with a tear—

left in a cold, dark dungeon below the city streets,

with no key to enter or candle to illuminate the paper.

The words broke through my doors,

took my spirit hostage,

and forced me to write it out—

until I heeled.

Then I healed.

* Indicates Story Placed in Contest or Writing Challenge

^^ Indicates Story is a Sadhill Classic

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