• Memories
    just one last look, dear,
    another glimpse?
    Fifty years of memories come and gone
    …it ends.”
    Wife sniffles into her tissue.
    “Our home. All of this.
    Stupid bankruptcy.”
    Husband wipes her crying eyes
    with tired hands
    fighting his own tears
    with hopeful smiles
    “We'll never forget our memories here.
    They'll join the next
    from all our new adventures
    to come.
                          we’ll be okay…”
    He whispers, holding her close.
    “We'll be okay.”

    Featured Image: Team GHB

  • I Choose To Die

    I choose to die
    as I lower into the water
    I’ll drown this life forever, I whisper
    filling my heart, my eyes
    my mind, waterlogged in no time…

    I choose to die
    sitting cross-legged at the bottom of our lake
    This backyard will never be the same
    from my actions
    to our family name

    I chose to die
    when my breathing ceased
    ending apart of myself
    I refused to see
    Soaked memories of a shell I wore
    masks of life that became a chore
    submerged to the lake floor

    Discarded, ignored

    I chose to die
    because I’m moving on
    above the surface



    I’ll live on

    I Choose To Die first appeared at The Writer’s Club on August 27, 2022

    Featured Image: Kirsten Curcio

  • Little Christian Girl
    Christina loads a Linkin Park CD
    in the boombox,
    twists the volume to max
    presses play
    then turns to her friend
    We kinda look like each other, you know?
    Our brown skin and dark curly hair.”
    The teenagers stare at themselves
    in the break room mirror
    “You’re prettier,”
    Christian whispers.
    “Let’s switch nametags,”
    Christina demands.
    “Someone will know,”
    he’s adamant.
    “Pfft. We’ll get away with it.”
    She pins her nametag on him.
    “Now I’m Christian,
    and you’re Christina.”
    Laughter ensues
    Rowdiness dominates the grill
    Fake Christian runs around singing
    like Chester Bennington
    The restaurant crew acts like ninjas in battle
    handling fast-food orders
    to watching,
    confused customers
    Days later, a mystery shop returns
    zero score
    with a stinging memo:
    “That little Christian girl…
       is an issue.”
    But there was no little Christian girl
    there was a Christina
    but it made little sense
    Christian’s a guy
    three times Christina’s size
    “That mystery shopper fucked up.”
    The novice manager concluded,
    ripping the mystery shop up
    “Told ya.”
    Christina tells Christian
    quickly kissing him
    “Now you’re my boyfriend.”

    Featured Image: Canva

  • I am so thrilled to share my poem The House of Dead Leaves was published on Spillwords Press. Special thank you and warm vibes to all of my kind friends here on WordPress for reading and your continued support of my work, as well as Dagmara K and the Spillwords team.


    We arrive at a house composed of mustard-brown bricks
    Dead leaves and aged newspapers splattered with a wanted murderer’s face pile around the black front door, desperate to be swept
    I’m wearing a purple coat, itchy black sweatpants, sneakers that no longer fit, and a pink beanie hat
    I’m still cold and hungry, but I’m alive today
    I’m standing on a stranger’s stoop with the person taking care of me
    “We’ll stop here for a bit.” She says, knocking on the door
    I don’t have a choice in the matter
    I am a burden who became someone else’s temporary burden
    A child along for the ride during winter break, living in a troublesome city—south side
    A man opens the black door

    Read the full poem here: The House of Dead Leaves

    Featured Image: Canva

  • Inspiration
    Strolling through hazy woodland,
    a poet presses forward
    awaiting inspiration
    to strike
    “Will you accompany me tonight?”
    He inquires of Earth,
    walking on crunchy leaves,
    beneath his boots
    Such craves trigger rumbling
    from the woodland floor
    “My dear…”
    Her kiss plants his lips
    on his
    Vision strikes
    into words arranged
    aligning a poet’s mind
    For a time...
    He writes
    and writes
    until she travels on
    with vanishing night
    refreshed in rich light
    A new day
    Another chance
    to venture forth again
    his muse’s love
    and pure

    Featured Image: Canva

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