If I just would have screamed at you;
if I just would have let it all out after
they patched your wrists back up and you
were resting comfortably on my couch, your
immortal future before you, that chip on
your shoulder temporarily knocked to the
side by all the recent attention, but I
held my tongue, pushing that white elephant
into the closet, into the dark where it
didn't exist, letting you believe you were
the center of the universe; Lazarus back
from the dead and every ego trip since
then has been a thorn in my side, a bitter
reminder that silence is not always
prudent, now wondering how to reverse
the damage, how to scream myself hoarse
by letting you know you weren't the only
desolate one, the only one with problems
and fears who staged this ridiculous act
in hopes of testing the waters; gauging
reactions, as if all eyes were riveted
on that performance, all critical decisions
delayed, the entire world revolving
around that poised and hovering knife

I'm 38, having written poetry for the past 17 years.
Currently back in the publishing world after having
taken a 2 year hiatus due to creative apathy and
temporary insanity--which, actually may have enhanced
my writing. It has certainly enhanced my weirdness.

I currently have a book available, "Piss On Your
Parade," up for grabs at a mere $5.00. Contact me at

2007 Underground Voices