With tears, the infliction of mortality was fiercely debated.
Memories of childhood joys appeared, but familiar faces were faded.
With a mixture of hysterical laughter, murmurs, and wailing,
The final act was finally abated with a crumpled note nearby,
With a name at the end stated.

2 A.M.

At 2 A.M. she does her dance,
Her eyes of sorrow hidden by euphoric trance.
She does her best to entertain the crowd;
Wide eyes they glare, and the shouts are loud;
Her fluid movements cause money to rain,
For the dirty bills are her source of gain.
It’s behind the eyes, oh those weary eyes,
Where her soul seeks warmth, and her spirit cries.
Her passion is singing; her passion is life;
Still she walks in heels on a winter’s night,
To make a living the only way she has known,
For the long dark road has become her home.
She is mentally afflicted, because she is a victim
Of abuse in her childhood, when pain was inflicted.
Her tears are the tears of an angel …
She longs for understanding; she longs for light;
For a heavenly shelter from the cold of night.
As she strips her clothes, pain strips her soul;
Only the familiar eyes of her sorrow would know.
She is an angel. A beautiful woman.
At 2 A.M. she is still a woman.

Dark Sorrow

Misery has found me and the dark place relentlessly calls for me. I can hear the weeping of the sorrowful; the unceasing bellowing of the tormented is unbearable, and renders me despondent. The woman in the black veil stares at me and sees my distress. With a haunting wail she disappears into the darkness; the train of her black dress follows behind her. My soul burns with anguish within me. I have called to the heavens with tears but have heard no answer; my only comfort is the memory of my mother. The desolation wears on me, and the abyss pulls me closer to the ground. I have stood strong for many seasons, but the years have quietly stolen my youthful strength. The putrid smoke of the abyss is offensive and it scorches my eyes. I stumble around in darkness wanting to cry out but I will not give the dark place any more of my tears. Within me, hope wanes and despair has taken up residence. Only the fire of anger keeps my feet steady on the long and dark road. Sorrow increases day by day, and the poisonous fruit of trepidation is eaten by many. Is there any rest for the weary? So many tired and ghostly faces pass by me as I look into their eyes intently. Suffering has been our portion, and unrelenting pain our heavy cross to bear. Who will witness our plight and record the days of our lives? Maybe the heavens will open, and finally hear the agony in my cries.

We Will Prevail

In the face of fear let us hold onto our light;
In our darkest hours we will prevail against the horrors of the night.

Though we are sorrowful, we are spirited;
Though we may fear, our hearts will not fail;
Though our crosses are heavy, we will not falter;
Though we shed tears, our hearts are filled with love;
Though we are misunderstood, we will persevere;
Though we may be unloved, we will find the strength to love ourselves.

Neither fear, nor sorrow, nor doubt, nor tribulation, nor fire, or deep waters stop our resolve.

Let our names be written in gold and read aloud in heaven’s roll.
Let the world stare upon us in jealousy and wonder.
Let us, the sorrowful, meet at that peaceful river and cry in each other’s arms.
Let us all link and hold each other in love as we silently turn our heads to the sky and look at the starlight.

The Will of My Vengeance


A black ant crawls around in search of sustenance. I live in perpetual darkness. I am plagued by snares and pestilence. I have been abandoned by all who have claimed to love me. Family means nothing now; friends have become hated enemies. The world has taken a front row seat to my misery; they drink their wine and sample hors d’oeuvres with a scowl on their faces. As I make my entrance on stage, they laugh and jeer with foul breath and discolored teeth. I am mocked mercilessly by the horde of disgusting and worthless scum.

In the midst of their mockeries and outbursts, I sit and keep my silence. The inner workings of my mind record their atrocities. I detail and finalize the ways of their destruction. They parade me around in their congregation as they put my suffering on display. Loud cheers are heard as they exploit my vulnerability. They are jubilant and euphoric in their wickedness and immorality. They feed on my misery like parasites. The gluttonous filth fill their bellies and come back for more.

I have nothing left to give. I cry out as anger overtakes me. They fall silent and stare … I curse them all to hell. I will survive; I will survive it all. I will uproot them as a violent tornado uproots trees. I will swarm them like aggressive African bees swarm their prey. I will upset them. I will make them pay. I will destroy them. I will upset their very spirits and souls with curses and vile rhetoric. I will make it difficult for them to sleep. I will have my revenge.

Ghosts of the Past

I have walked through the fires of affliction

I have swam the deep waters of despair

I have Flown in the winds of suffering

I have endured the storms of pain

I have survived the earthquakes of illness

I have overcome the avalanches of doubt

I have escaped the floods of misunderstanding 

I have conquered the tsunamis of betrayal

I still war with the ghosts of the past.