I can't breathe.

Your noose of hate,

constructed of words meant for love tighten around my neck.

I can't breathe.

I tell you over and over.

My cries fall on deaf ears-

programed from ancient scrolls.

I can't breathe.

The bullets you shot into my lungs,

when I was only trying to live.

I can't breathe.

Your hands pressed firmly over my mouth.

Because it's better for you to not hear than to listen to the truth.

If it's better for that I can't breathe-

then I will keep breathing.

“Boy, did we get ourselves into quite a pickle!”

I heard the voice whispering as I cautiously approached the top of the attic stairs. The door was slightly ajar. I had expected the air to be stale and musty. I paused for a moment, fearful of what waited for me on the other side. I slowly pushed the door open, peeking around the corner.

The attic was very claustrophobic, with boxes stacked to the rafters. One narrow path had been created through the mountain of chaos. The attic was quite dark and dimly bathed in clouded moonlight. There was a distinct smell of mothballs and old cedar in the air.

In the distance, I could see the silhouette of a figure, sitting in a chair with fingers fumbling rapidly with something unfamiliar. My curiosity got the best of me, so I slowly started walking toward it, being careful not to bring attention to myself. I tiptoed softly, and yet the boards seemed to moan underneath my feet. My hands became slicked with sweat as anxiety built up within me. My breathing became short and more rapid as I approached the back of the person hunched over whatever was in its lap.

You can do this. I kept repeating it to myself in my head as I edged my way closer. You can do this

Suddenly the figure became very still, yet the flickering light of the candle cast a very energetic shadow upon the floor, almost as if the figure was dancing. Suddenly the chair began to start rocking back and forth slowly and a voice blurted…

“Boy, what are you doing up here? Are you trying to spy on me?”

“No, grandpa. Uh… Uh…” I started to stutter. Thoughts quickly swarmed my brain. Quick, Josh – think of something.

“Mom wanted me to tell you to come down. It’s time for dinner and she’s made your favorite – meatloaf.”

“Oh, she did, huh?” he mumbled. “It’s not polite to sneak up on people. Come here, boy!” Grandpa said in a stern voice.

As I continued to get closer, stepping carefully through the pathway between the jumble, he reached down for an ornately carved chest that sat beside the chair. It was quite small, and the carvings were nothing like I had ever seen before. It appeared to be some form of text and symbols, and it was covered in a thick layer of dust. Grandpa’s silhouette quickly fumbled with the latch, rapidly opening the lid and placing that ‘thing’ inside which he’d been handling when I first caught him in my sight. He was quick, and although I could not make out exactly what it was, as it was wrapped in an old handkerchief tattered with holes, it almost looked like something made in…. But whatever it was, it appeared to be old.

“Come boy…quickly. I’m getting older by the second.”

“What did you put in that box, Grandpa?” I asked as I stood behind his chair. “It looked really old,” I continued.

He quickly spun around, and in his hand he was holding the old candlestick. His hands were trembling as the flame danced beneath his face. Each flicker illuminated the deep folds differently, with every wrinkle telling a story. His eyes were deep set and fatigued, resembling that of coal. His silver hair was sparse, and disheveled. He slowly raised his arm without

a sound, and motioned with his gnarled misshapen fingers for me to come closer.

“Come here and sit down.” With his voice strong, yet quavering.

I moved my way to the front of his rocking chair and sat down with my legs folded, Indian style, and my hands in my lap. I slowly pushed my glasses back and the long curly stray hairs out of my face as we locked stares. I gave him my undivided attention, eagerly awaiting his words. He slowly placed the candlestick on the chest beside his chair, the same chest that held his secret. I sat in silence, staring at his fragile body as he peered out of the attic window as if he was eagerly waiting for something. (attic needs to be drafty)

“What are you looking at, boy?” he mumbled grumpily.

“I’m just waiting on you grandpa.” I replied with a crooked smile. “You asked me to come sit down beside you.”

“Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Have I ever told you about the days when libraries were on every corner?”

“Libraries?” I questioned. “No sir. Umm—what are libraries?” My mind began to race. Could this be the big secret he has been hiding all these years?

“Arrrrrr, these teeth – I can’t talk with these teeth in my mouth.” He slowly reached into his mouth and quickly removed his teeth. I sat as my eyes became wide open, unsure of what he was trying to tell me. He seemed preoccupied and his mind was everywhere. He pulled a stain-covered linen from his shirt pocket and clumsily wrapped his teeth in it.

“Ahh, yes… That’s much better.” He mumbled and then placed them on the chest next to the candle. He stared at the chest for a bit and slowly caressed it.

“Grandpa, are you okay?” I asked with hesitation.

He rapidly turned toward me, all hunched over, his face directly in front of mine and expressionless.

“The year was 2020, and boy, did we get ourselves into quite a pickle…”

The clock screams

tic-toc, tic-toc.

The hands spin frantically

reminding us are time is almost up.

Keeping the time -

Days, months and years.

Then without warning, a resonating  -

Bong! Bong!

Your clock has stopped!

Jumbled words flow from my mind,

making their way onto paper.

Unable to sleep, eat or drink

because writing is my nourishment.

and when sounds erupt to form words,

making sentences, forming paragraphs

then stories...my soul flourishes.

I write not for what the writing can

give me.

I write because it is who I am,an undiscovered novel.

It's not enough to want to change,

We have to raise our voices.

What would God say?

It's not enough to just sit through

and watch our brother and sisters die.

What would God do?

We must break theses barriers of hate

and heal the streets that flow with blood.

Look what God gave?

We must act now, tomorrow might be too late.

Every life is precious.

In his name I pray.

What will you do?

Time steals our youth and leaves us with remnants of how we used to be. Decaying memories and Echoes of laughter that's once filled this house has dwindled to silence. children's laughter fading to the wind.  Memories become harder to recall. Time is so unforgiving and cruel, but so precious when we get older, the days and years get shorter and death is just a kiss away.

Mr. Wrickles was tall and lanky

and when we walked,

He bounced liked a slinky.

Bobbing and weaving

as if he had a spring for a spine,

but the town agrees

It's because he drank too much wine!

I sit here and write of words that rule my brain and spill from my lips like an open wound. These uncertain words heal my broken soul like glue to a shattered priceless vase. I can only hope that these words will be delivered to the ears of those who are worthy of the pain and suffering for which they have delivered me. So, listen closely as these words are no longer words but a story of love, death and rebirth. What do your words say?

I've been down that road before,

more than I care to imagine.

Lost all hope of returning

and then do it all over again.

I've been down that road before,

these faces I remember clearly

because they helped to drag me there

and didn't give a fuck about me.

Stepped on, face tear worn.

Give me more, no...that's not more.

Left to die, my soul takes flight.

I've been down this road before.

Meet Bob Wart and his wart.

The wartiest of all warts

that you ever did see.

It lays on his nose just to the left

with one single hair

and the size of a pea.

Such a good sport

about his hideous wart,

Bob wishes that he had three.