Winning At a Losing Game

Winning at a losing game isn’t bad.

When a cup of gin turns into ginger ale,

Trying to cover up that you were sad.

Those days and nights you cried. That drove you mad,

Powerless. A boat on an endless sail.

Winning at a losing game isn’t bad.

In and out of bars was the life you had,

Unable to get sleep. Always looked pale

Trying to cover up that you were sad.


You told yourself that drinking made you glad,

Those words rang hollow. They told a false tale.

Winning at a losing game isn’t bad.


Sixteen years. The long journey you had,

The false medicine that once was your veil,

Trying to cover up that you were sad,


Eighteen years. A new journey. That’s not bad.

There are some games in life you want to fail.

You won by losing and you don’t feel bad.

No need for cover. No need to be sad.



Weeping Willow

The weeping willow

A tree with evergreen leaves

That droop as if they are tears

Suspended in midair

Never able to touch ground

A brown bark so strong

That it holds their weight

Yet inside it is soft and filed

With water

The tears that have succumbed

To gravity

Have created the lake

That now surrounds it


The girl that cries

For the guy

With the evergreen eyes

Her face frowns

With sadness

Her tears trace

The outline

Of her face

While never touching

The ground

The sadness she does not show

Lives inside her

Her soul is Atlantis

Becoming submerged

In ocean water

That girl has become

The weeping willow

Visible outside

Her window


My Definition of “Sonnet”: To Struggle

Writing a sonnet is so hard to do

Shakespeare I’m not. What do you expect?

I know that others are struggling too

Doing this makes me feel like a reject

As I write this sonnet my brain is strained

I want to sleep and get lost in my dreams

I am drawing a blank going insane

In my head I can hear my helpless screams

Others with this struggle can empathize

I have no luck and words are hard to find

I wish I could lie down and close my eyes

If the sandman came by I would not mind

This sonnet is probably not my best

But it is time to close my eyes and rest.

My View of New York

Rainbow of colors,

coming up ahead of me.

It was the stop lights


Large concrete brown square,

on the sidewalks of New York

Building I call home.


Walls tattooed with ink.

Figures of all shapes, sizes.

Expressions for the artist.


Many large puddles,

on the concrete New York streets.

The view when it rains


No stars to be seen,

in the darkness if the sky.

Too many lights on.