She is So Tired

Weary and tormented with nothing left to give,
her tears fell on the letter that she neatly folded;
and in that cold room she sat listlessly
closing her eyes after the tears dried,
and she fell asleep for a little while,
awakening to the same thing that for so long she had been fighting;
and to get up, she placed her hand on a worn nightstand,
revealing the many scars on her skin under dim lighting.
And the tears came again, from tired eyes
that were closed so many times in endless praying.
In her frailty, she held onto an unstable cold railing,
in a torn nightgown, walking down the steps to the kitchen;
in tears, she started off with faint words in her whispering—
but then she kept screaming,
all I want to do is live again.


Shattered innocence becomes the blood of vengeance.
Ruthless utterances long to escape the long held silence.
The days of mercy wane for hidden monsters;
The infliction of pain at their hands, will never be forgotten.
They will stand in the congregation of their victims,
And give an accounting.
Gleeful hearts will savor the hour of their sentencing;
Justice will be immediate; there will be no pardon.
Pleas for leniency will fall on deaf ears,
Because of the walls that wept, the screams, the torment,
And the children’s tears.

Take Away the Pain

If I could, I would catch your tears in the wind,
and hold them, and make your pain my pain,
willingly accepting your burdens;
And in my love for you, I will embrace them,
hoping in time, the strength of my spirit will erase them;
But if all else fails, I will forever carry them,
kissing and holding you with tears,
thankful to see you smile again;
And at my end, I will be lifted up into the heavens,
and the deep scarring of my heart
will finally mend.

Entries of the Anguished (part 2)

Tears of torment drench heavy curtains.
The sorrowful wail to release the pain and stem the damage.
Agony is devastating, with no ending,
and is not remembered in its origins;
the stumbling of the listless and incoherent whispers,
pierce the stagnant silence at 4 AM.
The soul is stained with the dark dye of pain;

in a long drought of happiness, they pray for rain.
Too often, their signatures are incomplete letters
on white paper, soaked with bloodstains.
Epitaphs of the heart are written,
then rewritten, again and again.
Darkness refuses to leave;
With constant tightness of the chest
and in labored breaths, they breathe.
There is no understanding after abandonment —
so for themselves they grieve.
Desolation shatters utterly, leading to unceasing tears
that fall on worn rosaries.
Old men with grey beards
and elderly women with long silver hair,
weep for the young
who lie in boxes motionless,
in silent beauty.
Words of the anguished are spoken,
hoping that the angels will hear them.
Still, they pray for solace,
and a new awakening.

We Live

We were but striplings, some without mothers, some without fathers, running wild in the night unafraid of pitch darkness with hearts of lions. Our aura glowed beautifully in the souls of us; we laughed and we wept in fierce countenance. We were young, yet many were the trials for us; our bodies skinny and undeveloped, so in the company of monsters we fought with tears and dreamt of vengeance. To keep the pain from sorrowful and depressed grandmothers, some held in their agony and kept the devastating silence. Go back in time, and look into the eyes of us. Move past the innocent smiles, and see the hurt in us. The unresolved pain of our past is the illness of us. We cry on the graves of our mothers and curse the abandonment of our fathers. If I could, I would take away the trauma from all of us. We seek heaven’s light to take away the darkness. They are scarred, and they are beautiful. They are my brothers. They are my sisters. Still, now, with the blood of hope, and with the blood of vengeance, we survive tormented summers and bitterly cold winters.

Ghosts of Old 42nd Street

Lascivious intent stalk the city blocks were women in short skirts and six inch heels walk. Naked ladies dance seductively in front of eager men for money; they dart in and out of dark 25 cent peep show booths, secretly. The scent of perfume and cigarette smoke lingers heavily; women of the night approach cars with dimmed lights. X rated movie theaters run films all night. The inebriated lean on glass windows under neon lights. Men and women use cocaine to stem the somnolence and numb the pain. Heroin users lie zombified in cheap dingy hotel rooms with dirty needles still in the vain. A prostitute walks down 42nd street in torn stockings, holding her broken heels, feeling the warmth of summer night concrete beneath her feet; she has worked for twelve hours straight with no sleep, under the sprawling glare of Times Square.

People eat in diners at 4 AM, and after two cups of coffee, through large windows listlessly stare. The scent and feel of New York City permeates the night’s air. The underbelly of the city are the fulfillment of licentious desires, addicts getting high, violence, tiredness, the pursuit of money, and sordid transactions. The drunk and homeless urinate on themselves, slumped over on subway platform benches. People wait on the train, with eyes bloodshot and lifeless. Another young lady heads to 42nd street, seeking quick money and excitement. The city blocks swallow you subtly in a matter of minutes, hours, or days. It traps you in its bright colorful lights. Out of towners languish for weeks, missing long forgotten flights. Uninhibited wildness leads to the exploration of long suppressed vices. Euphoria takes over.

The Weeping of Kings

Blood in battle;
The wailing of men in agony;
A king’s sword with the blood of his enemies;
Men of war with many great victories;
Relics and precious jewelry handed down through the centuries;
The vastness of halls with fire against walls;
A gorgeous queen in all her glory;
Men of great inventions,
And scribes who write your story.
Subjects who swear their loyalty;
The overindulgence; the feasting;
The splendor of royalty.
The conquering of kingdoms,
And the taking of lands;
The spoils of war;
The world in jeweled hands.

The jealousy;
The betrayal;
The waywardness of daughters,
And sons who are ungrateful.
The continued poisoning of meat;
The drunkenness of a disconsolate king in his seat;
The emaciation of the once mighty;
The thinness;
The gauntness;
The sickness.
In his own kin, the eyes of treachery.
The discovery of dark ambition, inadvertently.
To live, he must now kill his enemy;
By the light of the morning,
A first born son will be no more.
The decision of a king;
The falling of a legacy.
The cold, discolored skin;
The heaviness of the heart of a king.
The silence of death;
The agony.
The torment of finality.
The renting of kingly robes;
The heavy head of a king on his throne;
The canker;
The weeping

The Progeny of Anxiety


The percussion of their heartbeat
Is the rhythm of struggle of many generations.
The agony of their fathers last words
Spoken intensely for so many summers. 
They have seen the hope of dreams
Turned into the nightmares of monstrous scenes unseen;
Their fathers lie there—eyes opened, as pooled blood 
Starts to run; the last remnant left behind
Of the affliction of their lives.
Mothers in unbearable anguish comfort their sons
and gently wipe the tears from their eyes;
They say, It will be alright, but in their hearts 
They fear their utterances lie;
Prayers are abandoned, and faces
No longer look toward the sky.
Stark reality is lifelessness taken away on a gurney,
While eyes stare, with not so subtle apathy;
Black children ask, What does that mean for me?
Tired mothers and fathers try to answer

But voices drag wearily;
Targeted we may be, but we find our strength daily.
We will survive; even with tears in our eyes, we will survive.
In anxiety, we will survive;
In depression, we will survive;
With a generational history of PTSD, we will survive;
With OCD, we will survive;
With afflictions of all kinds, we will survive;
And after the dark winter we will thrive.