NFL Player | Poet | Public Speaker | Artist
Regrets drown themselves in moments. Fear from exes sowed to your heart, jagged scars, purple bruises like violets, over watered with tequila. So much of your pain is gasping, wounds on your body, secret poems. Pungent smells of rotting corpses, stacked too high to burn. So drown them. Throw them in the ocean of ignorant…
Continue reading ➞ Drown Them Again
I am the rose that grew from concrete Wilting after being stepped on by lovers Who promised to be gentle Believing they came to breathe in my fragrance To pluck me from misery And carry me home Watered in the most breathtaking vase And admired for ages Assumption was the thorn I used to hurt…
When in Sundance, Where I only knew about the festivals, I started my own fireInside a secluded cabinSo hot I opened the back door, I wrote. Popping almonds into my mouthSnow threatened to fall, or promised.I wondered about seasons and thought Obsessively about my lover. My fellows mistook my seclusion For looniness,For loneliness nestled between…
How many thoughts do you have daily that you never speak on? How many emotions run through you that you never claim out loud? Why are you afraid to share with others what you're going through, feeling, or trying to figure out? Well, where poetry comes in. This week's poetry prompt is a time to…
1 We aren't hiding anymore when we're twenty seven. —One glorious evening, to heaven with cheesecake and wine, Noisy restaurants with their faint WiFi! We walk through the gardens of the Getty and watch the sunset. The blossoms smell good in the good September evenings! At times the aroma fills the sky and we open…
And if Joy comes How will we welcome him? Will we not fear him, Will we not cower After knowing only Depression for so long? Though we have prayed for him, Though we have drank All through our night (lifetime) What if we hope again to Hear the click Of his mighty boots On the…
Summer With Him Momma’s Red Pen Momma was writing with red ink today, so my brother and I dare not leave our room. Most mornings, for as long as I can remember, momma has attempted to lose herself in that journal. Described as an author of introductions with no conclusions, yet she was often good at…
Continue reading ➞ The Tales Behind Our Brokenness: A Series of Mirco Fiction 2
Chapter One Chapter Two “I prefer a stiff drink over a stiff man.” Laughter bubbled over my lips as Gin explained herself with blunt description. It was the fourth Thursday since we had met and every night ended the same; teeth crashing, tongues dancing, and lips melting together. I didn’t know much about the enigma…
Come September my best friend, Joesph Gilliam, will have been restored in heaven for a year. It's crazy to think that I've somehow lived without my right-hand man for a full orbit around the sun. No day with grief has been the exact same, each morning brings new challenges and each night brings new pains. With…
But: I'm going to do it anyway If you're a writer that puts out new content everyday: Go to Hell Wait teach me your ways before you do I don't believe you really do You schedule your post in advance don't you Because: nobody always feels great about what they write or writing in itself. We all have days…