“How’s your nose?” Maya asked, tying my bowtie.

“It’s fine. I think it’s fully healed from the fight last month,” I replied.

“Ha! Fight? You got beat up, dude. There was no fighting whatsoever.”

“Pffft, I totally punched the lead in the chin, kicked the guitarist in the knee, and threw… something at the drummer.”

“Maybe in your dreams! He punched you in the nose, and you were out cold,” Maya said, giggling.

“My story is better, mi amor,” I said with a wink.

“Esta lejos de la verdad,” she replied.

“True, but it is más interesante.”

Finished with my bowtie, she stood on her toes, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Break a leg.”

“I’d rather not. Broke my nose last month,” I said, walking away.

“Love you.”

“Love ya too.”

I exited my dressing room and walked down the hall to the curtains. Taking a deep breath, I walked on stage.

“WHAT UP, WHAT UP, WHAT UP!? IT’S YA BOY CJ BACK UP IN THE HEEZY FOR REALZY!” I hollered.

It was so quiet after I said that you could have heard a pin drop.

“Well, that joke didn’t work. Duly noted. It’s Pen to the Paper 8, yo,” I said. Then, deepening my voice, "Drop the mic.”

SCREEEEEEEECH!!!

″That was a mistake!” I said, covering my ears and walking off stage awkwardly.

Tick, Tock

Goes the clock

I got no piece

Here’s a poem, at least.

Tick, Tock

Crows the cock

Time is out

Let's not pout.

Tick, Tock

Writer's Block

Let's move on

Before it flicks on.

No one really knows what happens behind closed doors. You can listen. You can walk up softly, bare feet, breath held, and put your ear close. But you can’t see.

No one really knows.

Alice paused in the hallway. The early morning sun shone warmly through the shutters over the solitary window, highlighting the flecks of dust that floated aimlessly through the air like little pilgrims with no planned destination and softening the severe expressions on the portraits hung along the wall. From where the girl stood, looking all the way down that long passage, she could see the end door. It was a humble kind of door, still and mysterious, its dark green paint peeling off and its brass knob dulled after years. Last night as she had passed it on her way to the bedroom it had been frighteningly dark; but this morning, although it had an air of mystery around it, it was almost inviting. She thought perhaps the owner of the house, old Madame Denholm, used it as a storage room - Alice herself was only the housekeeper’s niece come to stay the week, and the many passages and doors of the mansion both frightened and intrigued her. Walking slowly down the hallway, hearing her feet pad softly on the floor, she stretched out her fingers and let them rest on the smooth doorknob. It was cold to the touch.

“Alice. Alice. Open the door. Please, Alice.”

There it was; the gentle, whispering voice of a child. There was someone on the other side. She had thought she heard it call pleadingly to her when she hurried past the night before, and again in her dreams, but when she woke she had dismissed it as mere imagination. Now she stepped back, hesitating. How did it know her name?

“Alice, open the door. I want to come out. Please,” it sobbed.

Alice tried to ask why it was behind the door in the first place, but the words became stuck in her throat. She could run down and find someone to help - her aunt, or another of the servants, or even Madame Denholm herself - but somehow she remained where she was, feet frozen to the floor. No, Alice, no, she told herself weakly as she twisted the knob and unconsciously prepared to step back. Oh, she didn’t want to do it, but still, she had to, she couldn’t leave the child there alone, it would be frightened ... she pushed against the door, heart thumping as it reluctantly gave way.

She was first aware of a single candle standing amidst the darkness; secondly, of the mustiness that made her think of old, hidden secrets covered by dust or concealed within the pages of forgotten books. She shuffled forward slightly. How quiet it was! Her hand was slipping from the doorknob as she stepped farther inside, her entire body was stiff with fear, she was choking on a scream that began in her chest and slowly worked its way to her throat, refusing to come out; but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Why was it so horribly dark?

“Oh, Alice - you’ve come at last,” she heard it whisper.

The door clicked shut and the flame went out.

No one really knows what happens behind closed doors. You can listen. You can walk up softly, bare feet, breath held, and put your ear close. But you can’t see.

No one really knows.

Writers write.

Not for

admiration

affirmation

applause

but

because the words

demand it

protest in my head

yelling screaming cursing

setting fires inside my brain

threatening me that I will never sleep

ever again

unless I write.

bold of you to assume i plan before i write

bold of you to assume a single thought

graces the forefront of my mind

no, everything is a blurry design

the words only come to focus

as i type them out

sometimes blankness overcomes me

sometimes, even the blurriness fades

we call that the block

it's this sinking feeling

when the words refuse to come to you

and the weight of the world is suddenly on your chest

how can i call myself a writer if i do not plan

how can i call myself a writer if i do not think

how can i call myself a writer if i do not write

I want a picture of you: your face, your smile, everything. I wanna know how you taste, I wanna commit it to memory, thoes 4 seconds last night were enough to keep me intrigued. I wish I had you, wish you cared enough to stop walking. I wanna know your scent, I wanna hold you, be near you, why am I so desperate for you? Snap out of it! It’s not like she really exists is it?

when i am left

to count rosary beads

instead of feeling

when i am left

to consider

why she left me

does the same god

who saved me

from terrible things

pray

to

redeem

me

Think of a place.

A sunset with red rays through the sky.

An ocean with deep blue depths where no-one's gone before.

Unimaginable.

Unbelievable.

Uncredible.

Forever.