Category Archives: Poems

Shivering Home

Sacrificed for a moment’s comfort,

Eternity was in my glass for a short while…

Routine kept swinging open doors,

Routine was soft,

It fooled our hearts;

Moments later, walking home,

A speed-walking lunatic,

Shivering home,

passed random



Mother, please forgive me,

Rage nurtured in my childhood cup,

Father’s words never left,

Nor did the shadow of his hands…

Shivering home,

Passed random



The beer sat well tonight,

this poem however, did not.


Posted in Poems | 9,781 Comments

Owl Eyes

She was a fine piece of ass,

With the most confident tits I’ve ever seen!

I’d be thankful later on,

I guess thankful is the word; thankful for the sex,

And thankful for her body, filling up my time spent.

There was smoke,

As in every scene that I play my role,

And her speech was high,

And her limbs let loose,

But her eyes were safe;

The pair she had stolen from an Owl,

She had a pair of Owl’s eyes,

As round as despair, and made to pity…


Posted in Poems | 11,693 Comments

I Want Them to Say…

They will probably say, “He was rarely the quiet one.”

But I want them to say, “He usually kept to himself,”

And I want them all to say, “There was always music playing in his room,

All kinds of music…

“He always spoke of a few faces that he knew,

And he carried in his walk, a whole other continent; not to mention,

He was usually calm in the winter.”

I want the store owner to say, “He was a polite young man,

Always quick with his shopping,”

And I want the doctor to say, “He tried to be funny with his words,

Living in his fields of pain,”

I’m so very sure that my barber will say, “He never really cared for his hair,

Bunch of dead cells, he used to call it.”

I want the pizza delivery guy to say, “I knew him,

He was generous and extremely fond of mushrooms, yeah I knew him.”

Deep down inside, I want them all to say, “We saw it coming,

He was troubled in some ways, and now that he’s gone,

What can we say?”


Posted in Poems | 12,086 Comments

Pain of Paper

I feel the pain of every piece of paper,

People praise the pen,


A picture portrayed, a photograph,

Of a patch of grass, an earthly path,

Present always, inside my mind,

I’m in a place, poised with peace,

I no longer feel the power,

But I feel for the pain of paper,

and so I pledge to the peaks of poems,

As I pace in line,

Soon to reach a practiced prose,

Save me this white land,

I have been here before,

And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.



Posted in Poems | 10,067 Comments

Invitation to a Party

They asked me to hell,

“Welcome! Welcome!” I was welcomed well…

A few days and nights, a room was set,

A miniature wooden desk,

A board of a bed, from which sleep had long drifted off…

They admired me, everyone that I met there,

And I was given the creamiest of chocolate ice creams;

Astounded by the taste with flying eyes,

I asked what it was and from where…?

They laughed; a few hands stroked my face,

 I was told it was time for sleep.

What a great hotel!

So many people of many stories; no matter what you want to hear,

I’ve got a story to tell…

Posted in Poems | 9,435 Comments

This Right Here


This right here feels similar,

To the last line of some story that I read,

The finishing credits of some movie.

This right here is my haven of faces,

It is my shrine of solitude.

Every time I enter my room,

John and Yoko wish me merry Christmas,

And they tell me that war is over but only if I want it.

On the other side, Sartre is puffing on his pipe

And his eyes seem to be judging Dali by the flowers on his mustache.

Brando is the Wild One to me still,

And he stares at me from behind his motorcycle.

This right here, is what has made Borges fall asleep in his library,

He looks peaceful, and above him,

Camus is wide awake, alert as he asks me for a light,

And Picasso is playing with his food staring at cubes in the corner.

Alfred has crossed his arms and there’s a crow upon his knee,

While he’s staring at me,

This right here is how,

I’ve come to fill the void of not being who I am

Frank constantly keeps telling me to do it My Way,

And The Beatles believe that love is all I need,

And it seems that Bob Marley tends to agree.

Hemingway’s drowned in work,

And I try not to disturb him or Dickens, sitting behind his desk.

Carver is here, and he looks all too serious for me to joke with,

And so, I look passed and drift to Marquez, oh Marquez!

I can always rely upon your smile.

I can always hear Malraux saying,

“There’s always a need for intoxication,”

Well, this right here is mine.

Posted in Poems | 11,557 Comments

Look at Her Now

She’s far too cool to be played,

And she’s far too smooth to stay the same,

Look at her now,

Little skinny Sara is no longer shy,

Much like everyone else, she’s learned to lie,

She used to paint, rivers and lakes,

Majestic mountains, she had never seen.

Look at her now, no longer afraid of hate.

Somehow, little skinny Sara is a woman now,

Constantly counting her numbers and flipping through invitations,

Keeping all eyes where she wants them,

She’s far too cool.

Somehow, I can’t understand it,

All the things we do, and how we change, just trying not to be alone.


Posted in Poems | 10,629 Comments

Sick Cat

The cat was sick,
And it broke my heart,
As I smoked a joint,
To see her shitting on the floor,
The cat got diarrhea,
And I saw shame in her eyes,
For animals have it too;
Both diarrhea and shame.

Posted in Poems | 8,340 Comments


He is not like you and I,
He is one too many altogether,
And the moments that are his
Are smeared in laughs;
In his moments,
The moments that are truly his,
Attentive ears tend to cloak him,
And he jumps about in his moments,
And he makes people happy,
In those moments, he is funny.
But he himself is not like you and I,
He told me once
That he is no longer proud of his scars,
And he still bites his nails,
And he said once, “Cigarettes taste different,
And it seems like drugs in my body
Have surely changed…”
His luck is an alien one,
Not like yours or mine.
His tolerance, is riddled with caves
And hidden habits,
His eyes have glimpsed within the core
Of temptation’s tumor;
He knows how to hurt,
And he told me once,
“What’s scary is that I enjoy it sometimes.
I enjoy being pissed.”
“We all do,” I said, “Sometimes…
You and I are much the same.”

Posted in Poems | 6,981 Comments


“How are things back home?”
“Same old, same old…”
“How are your parents?
Have you spoken with them recently?”
“I speak with my mother from time to time.”
He continued to talk for a while,
I pretended to listen,
He then went on to buy me a beer.
“Buy me beers,” I thought,
“And I will talk politics with you
For the remainder of the night,
I will tell you of the streets in Iran,
I will agree with you
And nod my head repeatedly
At your western disbelief;
Buy me beers, and I’ll show you,
I can be an asshole just like you.
My girlfriend doesn’t like you;
Buy us both beers,
And we’ll pretend till friendship forms”

Posted in Poems | 8,556 Comments