I have been through a lot in this life of mine, not all of it taking place in Carhartts. I have learned to accept various life lessons I have discovered through moral or immoral methods. Trauma has also impacted me pretty hard and with that I have turned to writing, and most of all my poetry to help me get it out instead of letting it build. So with that I will post some of my own work so you may further understand the feelings I have felt, or what maybe even everyone else has felt at some point in their lives.

"Begin War..."

The stench of a thousand corpses floods my nostrils thrusting the day's intake adn whatever was left in the pit of my stomach through the cracks of my teeth. Choking and pleading with my throat to swallow it back down, my teeth fail and release the acidic dwellings of my paunch onto the cobble walk. I gasp for air...

The view is paralyzing.

No sight,

nothing but the wretched stench

that has already claimed my nutrition.

I shuffle my feet to only hear a clink and clank.

The ground is uneven and cracked

with the feel of rubble that shifts with movement.

A liquid trickles down my countenance.

Thicker than water, lighter than sweat.

What has happened to me?

"Stupid Prompt"

I am not Tony Hoagland, so fuck

this attempt to scribe as another scribe

did to his scroll so many years ago.

I will not Rhyme or Capitalize

words that need no such thing.

To write a prompt asking this, is asking

a drunkard to give away his bottle, however

it may change him, he will not become

him.

I am a poet because of my style

such as a designer is to his feng shui...

I drink out my own bottle, and will

not be fed by the bottle Tony Hoaglands's

Bitch of a mother used to feed him.

I have nothing but Respect and Courtesy

for Mr. Hoagland, but to take the pen

of another, would be to kill my sould, and accept

another...