Sundays are for Writing Vol. 003

Happy Sunday! This week, in honor of Mother’s day, I decided to post a mini project that my mom really liked. My mother is one of my biggest supporters. She dreamed of her little girl being a nurse, like her. Instead she got this anxiety ridden artist. I couldn’t ask for a better mother. Ill dedicate this post to all mothers, living or passed on, single mothers/fathers, and anyone who is that mother figure in someones life.




Sunday are for Writing Vol. 002

Hello, happy Sunday! I’m here again with some more writing. This week, Ill post some blackout poetry. You can read more on what it is here. This is an exercise I like to do before I start writing or editing. These are a few pages ( sorry for the bad scan job). Pages taken from the books The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum and Miracle’s Boys by Jacqueline Woodson.



Sundays are for Writing Vol. 001

Every Sunday, I’ll post some of my writing. It will either be a short story, a poem, or a gang of haiku. I’ll add a place for you to leave feedback, because I want to better myself as a writer and would love to hear thoughts or suggestion to make these pieces better.


This short story is called Girl’s House

I woke up in this girls house. My head was pounding as I walked through the halls of her house, trying to find a way out. As I stumbled about, I almost threw up on the Persian rug so I ducked in a room. Thank God for the garbage can near the door. I wipe the late night off my mouth and have a look around the room. It looks like a teenage hippie – wanna be – hipster lives in it. I look at a photo on the nightstand and see it belongs to the girl who invited me to the party. The room is empty, the golden morning illuminating the walls. I creep silently through the room, trying not to be noticed. I touch her dresser and run my fingers along the drapes. I look the posters on the wall filled with our fallen idols; Marley, Joplin, Hendrix, Lennon. I look into their eyes and wonder if they see me, see my failure. I glide across the room and feel her energy. I lie on her floor; its smells like weed and baby powder. I see a pale yellow and pink book under the bed. I grab it and open it; it’s her diary. I read the words of her life. Her old crushes and her issues with her mom. The guys who took advantage and the ones she took advantage of. Photos fall out. I look at the photos. Her smiling face in different places. The fun captured in those photographs adds to my morning nausea. I hold her life in my hands and I become envious. I want what she has. I want smiley memories and people to love me and guys to take advantage of. I want the pain she felt when her grandma died and the hurt she felt when the guy shed been dating fucked her father. I want those blurry photos on a camping trip and the happiness at the water park. I lay there, tears running down my face, wanting everything she’s had in her 21 years on this earth. My heart is hurting from the loneliness, cocaine and heavy drinking as I hear the handle turn. I push the book back under the bed and try to look asleep or dead which isn’t hard for me. I see it’s my roommate; he was looking for me so we can leave. I get up and walk down the long dark hall with him. We get outside and the sun burns my eyes and spirit. I tell him about the book. “Could have stolen it, used it against her on Facebook. She’s such a bitch but throws amazing parties.” I try to shake off the sad vibes for the ride home but it still lingers in my head.


Ohio is for writing.

In 2013, I randomly decided to move to Cleveland OH. It was the first of many reckless decisions and honestly my best one. I spent about 7 months living a carefree life. It was stressful; being broke and a homebody, reading beatnik poetry and sleeping till 2 pm. Through all that, I spent that time really coming into my own as an artist. Until the move, I was working constantly but had no clear vision as to who I was as an artist. It was like a poor man’s summer art workshop.

I painted and drew all the time. I also found a new medium; writing. I was reading a lot of Ginsberg and Kerouac at the time (I’m a beatnik head) and felt really inspired from the melancholy of my life. When I moved back to Buffalo, I stopped writing. It took me a few years to reread all that mess. So last year while living in FL, I felt that same melancholy I  felt in Ohio and started writing again. After a few months,  I dug up those Ohio poems and stories and edited them the best way I could and decided to make a book.

I may still go through with the book. I’m still working things out at my own pace. One day I’ll make up my mind. But for now here are some pages from my first draft.


At one point