"Where does this anger come from?"
I asked him one day,
trying to help him
trying to get to the bottom of things,
trying to pick splinters of glass
out of a shag rug

"Where does it come from?"
but he doesn't answer;
simply says he doesn't know
and my friends tell me to leave him;
it will be easier that way,
just as easy as concealing it all with makeup
so no one has to know
and I won't have to be embarrassed by the marks
but I'm not
I'm really not.
I wear them like a badge of strength,
proof that I can bear it
when times get tough

it's not that I feel I deserve it;
of course not,
but something that deep has to have a source,
a reason for being
and I've known him far too long
to just walk away
so I try to help him with these demons
the best I can
hoping through all of it that
there's enough left in me some day
to understand the answer


God, I was gullible back then;
back when I was young, innocent
and full of questions and doubt
when I didn't know which road to take
or where it would lead me if I took it

I'd heard one could always rely on God
in troubled times,
but I never found him in any church I went to,
or bible that I read.
I never found salvation in anyone's arms
whenever a man told me he would protect me
and never let anything bad happen

I never found any answers laying flat
on my back with my legs spread like
a wishbone for men to prey on;
there was never any haven behind their lips
or in their dicks--
in fact, the closer they appeared to get
to God with each thrust,
the further away I seemed to slip

I lost much of myself in the process
and I never found any answers
but I finally learned to stop asking questions,
to stop relying on men for safety and salvation--
to just relax and go along for the ride,
no matter where it took me
or however bumpy it was...

I figured God would find me
whenever he was good and ready

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