THE OPEN JOURNAL: DAY 9 – I, The Destroyer: A Micro-Lyric Essay

Poetry, The Open Journal

I feel like I was born with a sort of mastery in destroying people. I feel like I was born principled in building and breaking and tearing apart worlds. I feel like I was born skilled in the art of heart-shearing. I feel like it is an innate evil that I will live and die with. It walks within me like a treadmill of terror. I feel like the world can never be more right in the way it will destroy my image. It shall be defamation. It shall be desecration. It shall be worded so perfectly that each word will leave a picture of the damage that I’ve created. I feel like the world can never be more right in the way it will destroy my body. It shall be painful. It shall be exhausting. It shall etch the curse I’ve cursed others with a million times upon my flesh, and I shall die a million deaths alongside the hearts I have buried in my backyard. Yet, before this occurs, like a coward, I will run. I will run into the crevice of the earth, and I shall hide my face from the eyes of the one’s who may wish to forgive me of my sins. I am far more wretched than the wretched of the earth. I am the puss of the wounds I’ve made. I am the dirt that the wretched will stand upon. I am nothing, but all that they have said I am. And since this is the case, I say, with cowardice bravery, I will run. I will convince myself that staying will do the world a great disservice. I will convince myself it is better to leave than to let the world get its rightful revenge. I will do the only deed I know to be benevolent: I will run. I will run into the crevice of the earth.


The Open Journal – Day 2: Grandma’s Eulogy


Grandma’s Elegy

 Ecclesiastes Chapter 3:1, 5 – 10: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:  . . a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.”

Grandma’s Elegy

Some pains are soft and silent; but, a pain is a pain nonetheless,

And all pains requires action whether passive or direct

Because every living pain is a fragment of a death like cut glass to the neck of the spineless.

She believed in silence, but the kind of silence that an internal riot caused

It wasn’t the calm before the storm, but a calm within the storm

Like a soaking in the rain with the counting of each bolt

As if each jolt of energy was a misery spotlighted

Without the sound of thunder.


She just wandered in the voided noise,

Listening to snowfall

Because snowfalls like Mice do – quiet and unnoticed

And all she asked to be right now is quiet and unnoticed

Because she can feel a change within the clouds and she can notice

That the world was heading towards a time where everyone’s unnoticed;

And, she believed in silence –

The kind of silence that could be foolishly mistaken for peace, but in actuality was the birth of a grief.


For grief is autumn leaves off trees

And Grief’s a calm thief and Grief is God’s Demon

Grief’s the remedy with a side effect of silence.

Silence, Silence,

She believed in silence

For Silence is in the midst of a mind that can’t reach beyond time and into heaven

Silence is obscurity – hidden in the abyss of never been and won’t return

Silence is the purity in believing Hell’s burn is found breathing on earth,

And Heaven is eternal darkness.

For in darkness, there is silence.


It is hidden in the cloud of every lost consciousness

It is revealed in unconscious

After attempting to hold constant grip onto one jagged edge of life.

But, Grandma wasn’t holding on.

Grandma let it go, and it must have been the aching of her shoulders

As her arms stretching holding onto memories

Of family, community, and unity

As the pain stretched the body of antiquity to its limits.


She felt replenished by a loving God and all of her blessed children

From daughters, sons, and nephews,

To nieces, grands, and greats

She lived off prayers and precious memories to medicate her pains

As if each breathe of life surrounding her was heavy dosages of morphine

Coursing through her veins with love and musical endorphins

Solace was a song of soul jostled in her neck as the choir in her vocal chords

Was forcing out her breath she sung:

It’s Me, It’s Me, It’s Me, It’s Me Oh Lord

Standing in the Need of Prayer . . .


Each note captured the air and strangled its hand for help,

But benevolence devoured her,

She found herself praying songs for everybody else singing:

Not my father, not my mother, but it’s me Oh Lord

Standing in the Need of Prayer . . .


And on her knee her prayer continued:

Let my family come together. Family has fallen

Like jeans of hip hop moguls and modesty for women.

I’ve seen the Apple placed on every corner, hood, and every project

And these children find an urge to bite before they learn to digest.

Let my family come together. Family is lost

Like just police and justice that I’ve seen so often fought

Let my family come together. Family’s a song

Like the weak voice in the choir put together we are strong.

Once my family comes together – I can see what’s righteous

And my song can find its end and I can enter into silence . . .

After singing all her songs, she left us in the silence

So we can fall into each other arms for –

One moment of silence.

The Things You Write at 6 AM: An Existential Spoken Word


This is a poem I wrote entitled, “The Things You Write at 6 AM.”

It’s what I call “existential spoken word” because it focuses on themes of despair, anguish, and the quest for meaning in human existence. In the poem, I speak about topics relating to suicide, love, God, and writing. The words to the poem are written below. I know that it’s not perfect that’s why feedback and criticism is well-warranted and welcomed.

Thank You.

The things you write at 6 A.M. will scare you to death.

He wrote this choking on the smoke from last night

His chest cringed tightly like a ropes around his neck while the chair beneath him wobbled on three fragile legs;

Thinking: don’t let it slip.

He feels as if he’s in boxed in walls while two dogs bark, foaming from their mouths aroused after a dog fight;

Thinking: don’t lose grip

Left with ultimatums: Be Alone or Die Floating

He thinks he rather be alone now, but he’s stuck and still sinking

Like a Titanic standing in quicksand – He can’t stand being broken.

Dance with him and notice, his rhythm’s only irregular.

Dizzy from his Dancing with the Devil in a setting of Hell masked as Heaven

Is this life truly a blessing or a curse?

Because since his birth he’s rebirth like flamed birds only to reverse back into an apathy.

Existing like a ghost, only hoping that when he goes someone will care more than he did.

He swear, “It takes time to tick before you notice it.”

And it ticks, ticks, ticks while

All he truly wants to find is the perfect words to say

To form and contemplate all the blurriness of his brain.

Because this stage lives everywhere and he’s made false care

Facticity and the fraudulence is awfully drear. 

The more we seeks, the less we find, the more we feels less prepared.

The more we seeks, the less we finds, the more we feel no one cares.

Nobody cares the way the used to – Nobody cares enough.

Because love is just a tall-tale; love is just a story.

Compassion is a myth, and caring’s only foreign.

We have origami hearts and we’ve been shredding the papers

And the tiny lost pieces are feeling better than taking the risk . ..  of letting somebody . . . take a hold of us.

Too often we feel like he have to adhere to the ways of this moment to the ways of right here,

But he’s not quite here 

He’s trapped in white walls; He’s wrapped in nightmares.

The way he stand is like a sway on one leg on a windy Wednesday

Attempting to make his pen stay on track, but these railroads only lead to dark tunnels

And If there’s a light deep inside it’s hidden like Where’s Waldo.

The Things you write at 6 A.M will scare you to death

Trying to wipe the tears from your paper as the ink starts to spread and your emotion pulls away at you

No more feeling apathetic; only pathetic because he thinks he rather die than feel half-alive

Because he doesn’t want to exist like ghost; haunted in this temple that he’d like to call a mind, but it feels like an asylum.

In his silence he’s bare-knuckled brawl all his demons, but he’s changing with the seasons and noticing he can’t die like this.

He can’t die without this poem off his chest as the pendulum sways about-face and ticks my life to gray.

And it ticks, ticks, ticks while

Every day he awakes with this weight and this fear of dying in that silence while nobody cares.

Because we all want to be great right?

But, we all don’t stay awake until the sun comes into sight paranoid of living null and void.

Drowning in your rising sins.

Praying just to pray.

Terrified of never finding why you’re really here today.

And you can feel the time ticking

So you’re asking God to show his face

While your scribbling out these frantic thoughts upon the blankest page

Living in a maze and finding fear and only fear

Because this world is full of loose ends; tell me why I am here?

Before the time disappears because I can feel it ticking

And I don’t want to live always searching, but I don’t know want to die without finding out my purpose

With my origami heart that left my feeling like a ghost

And my tears that smear my written words like raining poem quotes

My love that never feels the way that love should feel at all

And The Things I Wrote at 6 AM that saved me from the fall.