Post-depression mornings are often so torrid.Many indeed are quite nasty and horrid.You struggle some mornings to get out of bed,So you lie there and suffer and wish you were dead.But somewhere inside does a neurone ignite:"Get up, you idiot,...

The Pro’s band took a break in between sets, and I sat there looking at the four shot glasses, knowing exactly who I chose but I needed to get them separated so the pressure was off of me. Looking at...

I felt like a homeless in the banquet of life I fed on leftovers Of what angry gods had left.

If my paper would speak,what would it say?Would it push away my pen if I write today?And how would the paper feel? Maybe it would feel oh so special.Because I carved in it words so sweet.Maybe it would fear my...