Life Is a Fine Damn Mess…

To Be Contrary Is Not Without Conflict.


I had what most could consider a very unconventional childhood and youth. I literally spent time as a baby in a back room of a bar in a make shift “crib” fashioned from a beer box while my young mother worked as a beer maid at the local bar. Then, as a child, my adopted “mother” also would tote myself and step-sister to the bar she tended at where like Cheers, everyone knew our names. She would do this whether or not she was due for her shift. It was like a second home.

My step-mother also knew almost all the bikers from our small city and surrounding areas and we also frequented the biker bars as well. At a very young age, I was introduced to a subculture where tattoos were almost a prerequisite. I also lived right outside a military base and had civilian privileges and was familiar with how it was to grow up in a military town as well, where tattoo street shops, strip joints and bars dotted the landscape.

I always knew that when I grew older, I would become inked. Preferably to a degree where I really couldn’t just count my tattoos. If someone asked how many I had, I would be able to say, “enough.” I’m not even close to my goal yet, but I’ve got time. What I’m getting to is, “back in the day” when I got my first tattoo, 1997, because I was 18, most artists wouldn’t even touch your hands or highly visible areas if you weren’t already well inked. It was considered taboo.

The only type of people allowed to have face, neck, hand, other highly visible ink, were bikers, ex-cons, gang members, tattoo artists themselves, or maybe people that were employed in jobs where their appearance wasn’t branded ( Starbucks meh.) I’m going SOME place with all this. Tattoos now a days are just not a big fucking deal anymore. For the most part when I’m in public, I don’t even bat an eye when I see anyone that looks like a hipster with a full sleeve.

I think mainly because of Henry Rollins disapproving comment to someone I heard where he called her tatts “trust fund tattoos!” Yeah, if the truth was ever spoken, it was at that moment because he just summed up the way I’ve felt for a while about that subject. I grew up through both the punk and hardcore scene of Richmond, Va. I’ll tell you what I know about tattoos from then. The kids sporting the most ink where 9 times outta 10 middle class going to shops and putting their ink down on plastic.

I know this because my two over privileged “friends” at the time were middle class and would do this when they became of age because they were allowed access to their trust fund. So, usually going to shows, you could tell whom was truly poor as a lot of punks had home made tatts or not very many. For me, my ink is based off what I believe and don’t believe in and also contradictions as well. I have ancient designs, primitive, american traditional imagery, punk/hardcore type themes and some revenge based. I was accepted to University for Art History/Sociology, so Art had influenced my life considerably all throughout my academic career and life. I am visibly tattooed and have some designs that definitely are not what some would consider a female should own.

I have both hands inked ( not fully, works in progress ) and a small design by my eye as well. I forget about what I look like when I go out in public. I suppose just because I’m used to seeing myself and don’t think anything of owning a cross buster tattooed on my right upper middle finger knuckle. ( all christians love this design BTW ; )

I know there will be those of you thinking, well what makes you so legit? Well, like I explained, I GREW up in two different subcultures. First, the whole biker/bar/redneck deal and then when I was about 15 and began going to punk rock and hardcore shows. I had a very hard damn life growing up from a child to my youth, and even now as an adult, I still suffer from the trauma and pain of my past. No, I know I’m not the only person like myself, but what I’m trying to get across, is now a days ESPECIALLY, there aren’t very many legit real deal types out there. It’s all about the dollar and not the content. Think about the next time you see some dude walking around with his sleeve done in a “filler design” ( space spanning ) basically where the same design is repeated and usually almost always black.

Fuck it. It’s their money. But it doesn’t mean that I’m not going to making jokes in my head about it when I pass them by. So yeah, tattoos are personal, fucking duh. My man owns no ink. We’ve been together next year for 20 years and neither of us even owns one another’s name on each others body. Which YES, I do think is fucking taboo. Possibly his initials somewhere at some point, but it still makes me cringe. He’s not from a artistic/creative background like me. And, I love his mentality about getting inked. He says that he’s just not thought of anything he’d want to have for forever, so he just doesn’t want to get just “anything.” To me, that’s fucking cool and being a individual.

But, really when I’m in the nursing home and having to sit in a diaper and look at what I own. I’ll at least know that I was a warrior in my time and have all the scars and legit ink to prove my battles and the beliefs that I felt so strong about.








This Place

I’ve lived all over this damn city
and I know there’s worse and
better to be found.

The Amtraks come through
this part of the line at about
sixty plus and the horns are
heard first before reaching
each of the four crossings
along a stretch of less than
a mile run.

It’s not white noise.
Close to a year and
I’ve yet to grow accustomed to it.
Unnerving and ceaseless
in the disturbance of my peace
are these dragons in motion.

So, it is the truth that I
never had much feeling
for this city.

It’s not the one
that I grew into.
It’s not the one
I was forced to
leave behind.

I’ve come to hate
this place for the
gentrified facades built
in the guise of progress.

I’ve asked myself the question
many times before and that is
at what cost does improvement come
when so much must be destroyed?

*This is also scheduled for my Chapbook due out this Spring*


Try as I might
I worked every angle
until they got worn
down to just infinite circles.

Running around in the
same damn place and
not going no where.

A hamster on the
perpetual wheel.

All I see going past
me in my malcontent
are the things in life
and the people that
make me feel even
more ill at ease with
them and their judgements.

*This is going to printed in a Chapbook due out this Spring*

They Keep Getting Younger

Silky lustrous hair
Skin so soft and tempting

The same sirens that would
have caused sailors
to beat their brains out
for just a brief encounter.

Epitome of femininity
Easy smiles and expectations
meant to be fulfilled.

Selena, Felice, Scarlett.
No count talents and starlets
it makes no difference.

Ingratiating in every decision they make.
To garner favor
To stay relevant

A dream or crush.
Images used for a quick
jerk off before bedtime or lunch.

It all dies anyway.
Beauty fades.
Favor sways.

*This will be printed in an upcoming Chapbook this Spring*


Thoughts, sentences, things, feelings.
Tangible and what was never
meant to own or be finite.

How lost you feel
not to a place or location,
but to a familiarity.

They are just words.
My words make up miles
of steps tread making up
many painstaking lifetimes.

Lives I would never chose
to live over again.

Contrary to wishing to forget,
the words I express and
keep close are the same ones
that bring me misery.


*I intend on publishing this in my Chapbook due out this Spring.*



I am willing to have electrical currents
run through my brain
to banish my demons and you think
praying to jesus is gonna save you
from yours.

What you forget is that you
must be forgiven by
those you’ve trespassed.
Pray for your dead.
Beg the living.

You’ve run your whole life
from owning up
to your own faults.

If if could just move on
and forget

What if I wasn’t both haunted
and tormented by my history?
I could be another person altogether.

I would be the person you never met.


* This poem will be published in an up and coming Chapbook due out for Spring ’16, titled Real Talk. *

A Poetic Glimpse Into a Agoraphobic’s & Anxious Person’s Driven World


The sirens sound
like the bay and howl
of a long forgotten hound.

As the world
chases it’s own tail.

The pace and
movement that
compels all
that surrounds
me to constantly
move, is overwhelming.

I try to
change my reaction
to the chaos
by slowing
myself down.

I practice
the techniques
I’ve been taught
when the world starts
to cave in on me.

But, I’m finding
myself in another
public restroom again.
Willing myself to

Finally, my chest
loosens up and my
stomach settles.
I question my strength.

How much more of
this can I really
I feel embarrassed
and defeated.

I had to quit
school over this.
There is not one
aspect of my life
where anxiety
has not predominated.

Pep talks and
trying to psych
myself up don’t work.

I went from a
time in my
life where
I was fearless.

When something
challenged me
I faced it head on.

I would force
myself into
doing things
that scared me.

What has changed?
I don’t exactly know,
but things did.

Maybe, I gave
into too much
somewhere along
my life.

All, I do
know is that
I’m tired of
anxiety attacks
and I’m tired
of public restrooms.

Most, of all
I’m tired of
feeling defeated.


~Note~ This work has been published in a Chapbook previously by Mika.

Poetry Devoted to Anxiety


In and out they come
in an orderly succession
awaiting their turn.

To be gnawed to the qwik
or to have all the extra
skin pulled away.

Like little soldiers
they endure the
impending onslaught
of a self-afflicted war.

And what really changes
with acts of violence
as a means to an end?

You lay awake pondering
where exactly it is your
anxiety manifests.

You want to figure it out.
How it is to live a life
where you’re not anxious
about being anxious.


~Note~ This has been previously published in a Chapbook by Me.

Mental Illness and Self Identity

I know you’ve probably heard it said or say it yourself. “I’m Bipolar”, or fill in what ever mental illness in the blank to compartmentalize, identify, explain, label, what you are. I am a plethora of many things and I don’t believe that even one solitary word could even define me as an individual either. I think that having a mental illness compounded with many other mental issues and physical ones and being different from everyone I’ve ever met for most of my life, has been stigmatizing enough.

That’s not to say, I believe I’m alone in my struggles. Far from it. It also saddens me instead of offering me comfort that so many others have to suffer as well. It’s one thing to be imprisoned in the confines of brick and mortar. It’s an entire other hell to be imprisoned within oneself. Surviving many years of torment and trauma only to have to survive what you’ve become as an individual from that strife.

I personally chose to identify as an individual, period. The fact that I am mentally ill and have my other physical problems doesn’t define me as an individual and I refuse to embrace my illness as something that makes me unique or special. It’s not glamorous or self-affirming. I’ve been hospitalized twice, which in reality, is not that bad considering. Both were voluntaries for me but, I was hospitalized in state facilities and both experiences were hell.

Having multiple mental illnesses is a DAILY struggle. Usually, if it’s not one issue that you’re dealing with, it’s another. Honestly, I don’t know what or who I was before I was mentally ill. I just knew I was very different from everyone else and felt those distinct differences from as young as five years old. I had a very hard time throughout my scholastic years. I was very anti-authoritarian, extremely stubborn and socially withdrawn. Every year, I would have major issues with at least two teachers per semester and that occurred until I graduated high school.

I didn’t receive my full diagnoses until I was in my mid-20’s and I knew something was disturbingly wrong with me. I was extremely volatile, careless, and fearless. I shop lifted all the time, drove recklessly and amassed many speeding tickets, I couldn’t sate my libido and I felt restless and never felt at ease. My thoughts never seemed cohesive. Until, all my chaos came to a halt and my world just stopped and that’s when my Depressive side hit and it felt like I got knocked out completely as well.

It’s hard to say what I learned about my mental illness. Some say I know enough about it, that I could be a therapist myself because I’ve been on the “sick” side and now the managed side. The only thing I guess I learned so far, is I’m still not at peace with being mentally ill. It’s not because I’m shameful. It is simply because of the fact that I endured all the pain, physical, emotional, verbal and mental from many people of my past and I’m still suffering from the fallout to this day.