Just a Fly on the Wall Inside My Mind

Published poet on a good day. Aspiring writer on the bad days.


There are no parks open after restaurants close, no churches or libraries welcoming the walkers of the night into their domiciles.  There is nothing wholesome to do besides drink, and nothing tastes as good as that first shot mixed with that first beer and a cigarette, after a long shift of dealing with the fucking public.


I clock in at 4:30 pm, most days.  That’s if I am off for the morning shift, otherwise I stay clocked in from 10 a.m. until whenever.  A normal, full-time server will work at least three doubles a week.  There is no designated time you will get off, no specific hour for the doors to close, no planning a movie or a date afterwards.  You leave it up to the universe every single shift, and in the restaurant industry the universe is an unpredictable bitch sometimes.

As a server, the industry does have its advantages though.  I can usually take off whenever I want, easily get someone to cover my shift, take three to four vacations a year.  I hustle when I need the money, and chill when I don’t.

I’ve tried the retail, marketing, PR, management, radio, fundraising, those 9-5s, rush hour traffic, but they all become monotonous, redundant, boring, not to mention the pay is not nearly as good.

Being a server allows me to easily find a job anywhere I want to go, with instant cash at my disposal, because there are no paychecks to wait for.

I converse with every type of human being on an everyday basis, from lawyers to retirees, to drug dealers and school teachers, MLB Coaches, mayors, pilots, kids, drunks, divas, grandmas and grandpas, escorts and cops, and I judge nearly all of them, especially the ones who always ask when it is that I am going to find a real job.

The restaurant industry is not only a stepping stone, but always a resource to fall back on and utilize for its full advantages.

The connections you can make are vast, the stories are ever-changing, and the freedom is priceless. Besides if you work in a restaurant, you will never go hungry, because everyone has to eat.

Don’t get me wrong, those twelve hour days, with only a half-hour break, where you are constantly moving and running around for only $2.13 an hour, in which you will never see a paycheck for and still have to pay back taxes on every year, can become overwhelming and unbearable at times.  The business changes with the seasons, and every day is a gamble.  It’s not for everyone.  This industry is brutal.


There are four Ds to the restaurant industry.

  • Drinking
  • Drugs
  • Depression
  • Divorce


Statistics claim restaurant careers are one of the top fifteen careers with a 40% higher divorce rate than others.  As for the other three Ds, they are just subtle side effects that sneak up on you before you even realize you’re caught up.


Puppy Love

You run back to me like a stray puppy

eating directly out of my hands when he’s hungry,

but every time I try to pet you

you back away like a dog who’s been abused for years.

I keep trying to get close enough to you

to get you off the streets,

somewhere warm and safe,

trying to gain your trust while I feed you

every time you come begging for more,

but you indulge your appetite and then you run away

like a feral cat in heat who never had a home,

and because of that

you never will,

and we will both end up alone.


I hate the loudness of it all,

the banging and pounding,

the screaming of the drums

when all I wanted was a soft and smooth piano.


I am no longer aroused by the seduction of the sexy saxophone,

rather turned off as it now violently penetrates my ears at its screeching peak.

It no longer makes me fall the way it used to.


I am so tired of listening to lyrics with misconstrued messages,

allowing them to influence my poetry

as if it hasn’t a mind of its own,

as if I couldn’t write better lines myself.


I am so easily bored with the same old genres,

the same artists on repeat,

the same songs played over and over again.


For once in my life I want to hear music,

not noise.


I thought I had lost all faith in God

until I stood in a church to mourn the dead

and said the word fuck so casually in conversation

that I immediately looked up

and asked for my forgiveness.


Maybe it was the way I was raised,


We didn’t go to service every Sunday

but I was still taught to pray every day,

and in this moment

my guilty conscience bitch-slapped me in the face


the second that word slipped from my vulgar mouth

in the lord’s house.


After we payed our respects

we went to a bar

where I felt more at home,

while the survivor read scripture beside me

in the most calming, soothing tone.

Then for the first time,

in a long time,

I actually listened and understood.

I felt completely at peace

and it wasn’t the whiskey.

My faith had been restored.


They say I’m too independent,

too self-sufficient,

writing deep into my own dimension,

locked up, releasing tension

and self-destructing into bad decisions.


Dangerous, because I don’t repent,

content with my moral affliction,

silent when it’s needed,

always giving them something they

cant have and won’t forget.


It’s apparent they always come back

craving my attention,

the way a scab begs to be picked,

the way the skin has an addiction to the needle just dying to be pricked,

like an infection taking over the useless body of a bitch

with no apprehension left

in knowing I’m not the one who’s sick.


I still stay on the line and listen

to the rambling words of the narcissist,

observing and absorbing the mask of self-confidence,

reading through their lines of nonsensical bullshit,

refusing to feed their egos starving for compliments.


They don’t walk away when nothing is left.

They stay poking at the dead

as if they control resurgence.

And that




is constant

and ignorant,

overplayed lies used in lack of context,

contagious and envious,

growing into an obsession

over the foreign perspective I cannot grasp.


I dive into the depths and hit my head on the surface

because shallow is the only form of connection,

and I find that I lose myself trying to accomplish some mission,

and I blame it on being an empath

believing that everyone has their reasons and conditions,

but the fact is

some people aren’t human.


I wish I had no conscious or emotions,

but I was not designed to be quiet,

or hopeless,

hidden in conversations

muted for the motives of saving faces.


I’d like to believe that I am not at all like them,

that I’m humble and modest

and not counterfeit,

but the more I hang around them

the more I see I own their characteristics,

and that is why I stare in the mirror so much

analyzing my reflection.


They say the first step to recovery is admittance

and if you don’t like something you change it.

I’m not saying it’s all bad being perfect,

but if you want something out of someone you have to give.

Serial Killer

I remember how I killed them,

each and every one of them;

how I ripped their hearts out and put them to rest,

left them to suffocate

as I threw carnations on top of regrets;

how I cried

and then laughed over their lives,

how I cleared my conscience with selfish lies

of how I put them out of their misery

in order to save their souls,

convincing myself

I was a martyr for love,

yet now I see those cedar boxes were empty,

with the way their murders have come back to haunt me.

I should have never went digging for the coffins I buried

because now they have resurrected

to become the death of me.


A doctor told me years ago

the only reason he didn’t admit me onto the fifth floor was because

I said I would never kill myself,

because it was a sin and I believed in God.

I wonder what he would say now though,

now that I’m not sure what I believe in,

when I don’t believe in the power of prayer

and going to church feels more like joining a cult I don’t belong in.

Instead he prescribed me some pills

that I took for a few months

before I decided I didn’t need my mind to be altered anymore,

and for a while I was okay.

I believe you have to be human to have that thought of never wanting to wake up,

of wishing it all would end.

The feeling of wanting to die can only come from being alive,

and if I were truly selfish I would have taken my own life long ago.

I’ve thought about crashing my car into a wall a thousand times,

spaced out on the freeway,

making it look like an accident

so that if it didn’t look like I murdered myself

others would hurt a little less.

I’ve thought about slicing my wrists open and watching myself bleed out before I go,

but I’m too proud to be found with blood on my hands.

More times than any, I’ve pondered popping a bunch of pills

and hoping to peacefully fall into eternal sleep,

but I’ve watched other attempts

just end up with their stomachs pumped full of charcoal

and I don’t ever want to fully taste my failures.

I guess the easiest way, and more probable one for me,

would be to have one last conversation with whiskey

until he convinces me to pull the trigger,

which is why I don’t keep liquor or loaded guns in my house,

but know that if you ever do find me murdered by my own hands,

it was only in self-defense,

and please do not cry for me because I finally served my sentence.

Locked Up


As time dies every night

when it is quiet enough to hear the walls talk in their sleep,

after the doors are sealed shut

and echoes are the only form of life I can hear

but cannot understand,

I plan my escape over and over again,

locked down to nothing but my mind

that lies awake every night

wandering along the pleas that I have already taken,

replaying the verdict,

imagining some other prison,

a better cellmate,

maybe a window with a view.

The clock slowly ticks away at my sentence,

and although I cannot see it,

I can count the sunrise every day,

and breathe each time I feel the moon.

I pace the white walls back and forth,

kneel to concrete every so often

while my palms remain clenched together

pointed to the ceiling.

I silently scream at myself

refusing to sympathize

with my heavy shoulders.

I drink from a metal trough

attached to where I piss,

behind a cement wall

where my eyes make constant contact

with the prison guards

but no words are ever exchanged

between them and me.

I remain locked behind Georgia State Lines

injected with Kryptonite

that even Superman couldn’t bend

soon enough to save me,

and I can’t stop thinking about filtered water,

fresh coffee,

that first drag off of a Marlboro Light,

a shower with a curtain and a private toilet with a door,

and as I indulge in my life’s outside pleasures,

I realize,

that is not so much to lose,

yet still I count down, plot,

and wish for a guacamole burger with a milkshake,

and maybe some silent walls where I can get some goddamn sleep.

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