The Good Son

I wear many masks.

I’m sure you’ve seen them.

The one I don the most

I call The Good Son.


The Good Son is quiet.

He keeps to himself,

His burning truths

Remain stifled inside.

He does not let fly

His bottled venom,

Instead swallowing it all.


The Good Son is dutiful.

He wipes your vomit from the toilet bowl,

As an accomplice wipes down a crime scene.

He washes the sink,

Watching evidence swirl down the drain.


The Good Son is patient.

He bides his time until he is free.

He faces your drunken insults with stoicism.

Your slurred words only fall to the floor before him.


The Good Son does not engage.

His time is devoted to being scarce.

He remains cloistered away in his room

From your roaring curses

And thunderous door slamming.


Within his fragile dwelling he comes to realize…

The Good Son is breaking.




What It Takes

It only takes one message

Of ten words

To cut the cord.

It only takes one message

Of three sentences

For him to leave.

Ten syllables

For the idea of a future

To slip away.

One line

For you and him to end.

One night

When all the memories

Rise and swirl around

Your brain like

Dead leaves in the wind.

It only takes two words

To heal.

I’m done.



The Cruel Mistress

Living with you

Is a life caged.

My jailer

Your liquid courage

Thinly masquerading

Liquid rage.


Your judgement can never

Be truly clear

Looking through frosted bottles

Filled to the brim with my fear.

I’ve learned to count time,

Not by minutes, hours, or years

But through subtraction

Of your discarded beers.


Your whiskey is strong,

Burning away every plea

Lacing your tongue with words

To burn loved ones

Until they can only flee.


This addiction is a cruel mistress

Who takes as much as she gives.

So convinced you are

That you consume it.

In truth, it consumes you as you live.

She is your first love

Who reigns above all others.

A marriage pact in sin.

As long as you two

Are intertwined together

It is certain no one else can win.



Private Storms

Storm clouds roll in

Over my mind.

I’m not ready

For the rain.


Hanging above, they deliver

Me their tears

No one else can see.


I move through crowds,

The only one needing shelter.

Thunder claps deafen me to your words.


A cold, white sheet of rain

Wraps itself around me

And obscures everything from view.

Calls for help are eaten up

By every drop.


Resigning to the will

Of my private storm

I press my hand to its walls,

An act of finality…


Before the wall is pierced

By an umbrella opening.

A face hangs under it.

The face of the one

Who found me.