Free Verse: Why Did I Do That?


I’ll hang my head in the bottom drawer because she’s the only one who knows
That the Abuse is happening just few inches from her handles and there I am next to the music completely faded away just like I’m just another half note in the melodies that make me alive
I am alive through the crutches I hold tight in my mind
I think I need them but I long for the opposite
I’m not just another darkness, parts of
Me have light
Especially with a lighter
The books will be written and the songs will be composed out of the substances that are taught as a sin
Gateway to the shiny golden gates of a new life
Life is forgiving and there’s Your second chance
Maybe third or fourth
But who’s counting


Free Verse: Empty Hands


Roses, dozens of roses, dozens of wonderfully red wishful roses waiting so patiently at my doorstep
Dozens of roses
I didn’t mean to scare you when I screamed but your love was too gigantic for me
It filled my belly like a baby, shone its light into my world so brightly I had to shield my eyes
I close my door on your hundreds of roses
and creep quietly back to my romance novel with a blanket and flashlight in hand
How small am I? So small.

I read about your kind of love in between the lines of my books and in the ending of movies, I see it in the meadows and up the valleys where the flower stems intertwine and grow up and up
How small am I? So small.

I keep my love locked in the corner of my room in an envelope with all the other letters to the boy I haven’t met yet-

A boy who isn’t coming.

And yet you’re here with your roses, dozens of roses, dozens of wonderfully red wishful roses and I am so small. I am so deaf to your poetry written in ways I haven’t heard before,
I am so silent to your questions spoken in ways that haven’t been asked before-

Not to me, at least
And I cry and I cry and I cry to the pages of love in my hand
Tears fall, there they go, goodbye
And you cry, and you cry, and you cry to a girl who is real and in your hands and she is me
And I’m sorry,

But these pages are my blood while I am your blood
I am not ready to be somebody’s love
Yet you love me with your dozens of roses
And I close myself off with a dozen goodbyes dozens of woefully whispered goodbyes, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

Science Fiction: The Charade, or The Truth


The United States was at war. The war broke out in 1993, and it is still going on today. This is one of the reasons why the Americans wouldn’t give up. On November 13th, 2003, an American pilot was captured by the enemy forces. His name was Jonathan Adler, and he was only twenty-one years old. Everyone in his legion of soldiers was killed except for him, and they took Jonathan as a hostage. For years, his parents pleaded with the government to let him go, but they would not. They demanded P.O.W.s, money, war arsenal, you name it. Finally, on July 31st, 2008, they let Jonathan go in exchange for eight hundred thousand dollars. Everyone thought that it was an outrageously low amount of money, and many were suspicious until Jonathan returned home. It was a glorious day when Jonathan Adler returned – the people celebrated and paraded him through the streets.

That night, Jonathan’s parents took him home, crying and hugging him until late at night.

“Oh, my little Johnny, we’ve missed you so much!”

“We’re so proud of you, Jon. We still can’t believe it. It’s all like a wonderful dream.”

Jonathan got undressed slowly, as he always did, and slipped into his favorite t-shirt and boxer shorts. He then brushed his teeth and went to bed, as if he hadn’t been gone at all and tonight was just like every other night.

There was just one small problem. One minor flaw.

This wasn’t Jonathan. Not at all, not in the slightest. The real Jonathan’s body was back in Madonia.

It was no actor posing as Jonathan; it was something much more sinister. The Madonians had spent five years and nearly fifty thousand dollars creating and perfecting the robot replacement of Jonathan Adler. His memories, routines, hobbies, personality, fingerprints, and voice had all been electronically transferred to the synthetic clone, which bore the appearance of Jonathan at the time of his death.

And, as a matter of fact, there was another small problem. The clone had become so human by absorbing Jonathan’s being that it had developed a sort of simple personality of its own. It was like it was just someone else–someone who acted, spoke, and looked exactly like Jonathan.

As time wore on, the clone began to struggle with ethics. Jonathan’s parents were so deliriously happy, so blissfully naïve of the fact that their real son was dead. It was so cruel to keep up this charade, and yet, it would be crueler to tell them the terrible truth. Or was it? To remain happy, or to live a lie? The charade, or the truth?

Poetry: Gone


They played on that couch.

They sat there when they watched television,

Every Saturday morning.

They played with blocks on this glass table.

They ran outside to climb trees through this door.

They sang songs from school right here.

Right here.

And now they’re gone.

They’ve disappeared,

And no one knows when they’re

Coming back.

They ate breakfast here on the stool.

They roasted marshmallows by the fireplace.

They helped clean this floor.

They helped decorate the Christmas tree right here.

Right here.

And now they’re gone.

Broken memories that may never

Come back.

Poetry: Why?


I woke up this morning, tired as always

and asked the Sun how she was feeling.

She smiled brightly at me.

I furrowed my brow and jumped out of bed.

With a jump in my step,

I ran outside and called for the Sun.

“Yes dear,” she replied.

I smiled and knew that’s what I wanted to hear.

“I have some questions.”

And so I asked:

Why is the sky blue?

Why do flowers bloom?

Why do bees sting?

Why do you make the sky pink at sunset?

Why does grass grow?

Why are clouds fluffy?

Why is it warm?

Why do waves crash on the shore?

Why do mountains scrape the sky?

Why are there so many things I don’t know?

The Sun laughed.

She nodded at me.

“Think, my dear.”