Just An Innocent Man (?)


Witness him

Standing out on the rain soaked street

Thunder greets him with a haughty eye

And the clouds ask God

To give him a handful of five


Just an innocent man

Just an innocent man trying to live

Just an innocent man trying to find happiness

So he straddles the stop sign

Cigarette stained teeth twinkle

Danger close

A shadow approaches

And he slyly sticks out his foot

It’s a woman he tripped

And she’s pretty, to boot

Sudden eagerness for words

And she begins to walk away

But a muscular, blood covered hand

Shoves the butt into her face

Smile, baby girl

And let me see your package

Pressing his malevolent body against hers

He makes little of her garments

She’s barely fifteen

But he doesn’t care

She’s just another body to ravage

Just another body to fill his screen

And cheer his teams

To parade heavyweights

While he gets hung

Lower and lower sinks his pitiable state

Kissing and flirting away

As if they’re samples for your taste

He finishes her off

And pinches her cheek

She has to live, she has to pass

His ugly, detestable path

Without warning for fear of scorn

His thorns have her torn

A new desire is born

To be seen and not heard

And the subtle subjection

Maybe worst of all


That Was You, America

I felt something die

again today

my eyes at the unforgiving

nature of humanity

beating and burying

who don’t agree

my ears at the screams

of the living dead

we see them everyday

but who knows

until ends

my heart at the catastrophe

raging over every part

of our world

when will we look up

and realize peace has been staring at us

all the time

tears flow like the blood

of Israeli children

may the bombs one day cease

sadness stings like knives

cutting through flesh

may the mutilation of multitudes of muslim women end

I felt something  die

and that was you,


An Aspergian Poem On Domestic Violence


I wrote this poem with my blogger and Twitter friend Kendra Lynn (her blog here, https://misslynn1.wordpress.com/) on my mind. Following her incredible work has inspired me to read and become more aware of the plight of so many women (and men, believe it or not), and I felt compelled to write about the subject. Her strength and vigor is in inspiration to me, and I’m grateful to be part of her circle.

He was smart

and he was kind

He’d drop me off at the mall

and pick me up on time

He let me go first

and let me have more

He never said “no”,

even if I’d been to the place before

He’d hold me long,

late into the night

He’d speak slow and softly

taking away my fright

Where I wouldn’t go

he would lead

From teenage fears and anxieties

I was freed

I didn’t think

there was anyone sweeter

I couldn’t think

of a life any better


Now I can’t wake up in the morning

Without him twisting my wrists

And one morning, I found him

on my clothes, he had pissed

If I confront him, he fights me

grabbing my hair, he wrestles me down

and punching me in the head

until I can’t hear a single sound

He shoves me

down the steps

and I try to wipe my face, so bloody

but he only laughs

There’s nothing off limits

I had to hide my dishes

and just when I hope he’s reached his limit

he fights even harder

He punches me like I’m a thief

that’s made him angry

He says I’m the source of his grief

and then he slashes my ankles

I can crawl away

but he follows,

and sinks his gritty fist into my mouth

and blood I swallow

Then he hurls a chair at me

and leaves me alone

to wish I was back

in my father’s home

Everyday it’s the same

no hope, no end

and when I think he’s changed

my fingers he will bend

backwards, until I think

they might break

I scream and wail

but he says my pain is fake

There’s more of me than you’ll ever know

Our story, our plight, you must know

or else, to our graves we will go

with other victims running to woe

Speak later, and withhold our peace

You are accomplices in our fate

Speak now, and give us peace

You run beside us in our race

Closed door, you know no name

Closed door, you hide our shame

Closed door, open wide

Make us new again

#OctPoWriMo Day Twenty Two Prompt: Dangerous Men Only Need A Closed Door



He says he loves you in light of friends

but treats you like shit when the lights are off

You say he isn’t dangerous, but his sins

are written on the body that he used to love


The Tango is an invented stanzaic form introduced by Chiquita LoJuana Gonzolas Sills.

The Tango is:

  • stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
  • syllabic, 9-10-11-12 syllables per line.
  • rhymed, xaxa xbxb etc. x being unrhymed.


This is a brief (I have another, longer piece in the works), but heartfelt call to every woman (one in every three, chew on that ) that is abused by the man/boy that claims to love her. Domestic violence is most commonly physical, because it leaves the most obvious scars, but the deepest scars are the ones that you can’t see. The scars that can’t be seen, that too many women bear everyday, are the ones that destroy lives and hope the fastest. The mind is the driving force of humanity, and once you lose control, you re effectively cut off from all else in this world. So many women are cut down, yet live to see day, after day, after day. That is the greatest tragedy. Having to live with your abuser, having to depend on him, and having to know he will hurt you, with no escape. This was inspired by Nicole Holder, Molly Brown, and every other lesser known but equally important case that I’ve seen.

As a man with a mother, sister, grandmother, and so many other dearly loved females in my life, I’m appalled by men that think of their wives as “slaves” and disposable objects. They aren’t men, they’re punks. Punks with too much authority and too little appreciation for the life they think they’re in control of. You make it hard on the good men, the real men in this world, and you shame us with you disgrace, bestiality, and mistreatment of the very sex that helped bring you into this world.