Hold On and Break


I’d rather die young

than slip through your fingers

I hold on and break

two worries away


Mountains call me too quickly

and send me away

your fingers wrap tightly

ready- hold on and break


I could be your lightning

not ready for stormy

one by one I take

these worries away


Be my music blasting

I’ll try to be yours

I used to think wonderful

was all we are


But I can’t hold the lightning

without soaking my shoes

so baby talk to me

the end’s the best part


I’d rather die young

than slip through your fingers

I hold on and break

two worries away


Mountains call me too quickly

and send me away

your fingers wrap tightly

ready- hold on and break

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 7/17/19

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I am trying


I am trying to tell you what I feel

but the thread of my thoughts

is being pushed through the eye of a needle

and some of the strands don’t fit through the hole.


I am trying to tell you what I feel

but some things get lost in translation

from my brain to the page.


I am trying to tell you what I feel

by only saying things that sound beautiful

but sometimes the truth is ugly.


I am trying not to hurt you

but I know what I am capable of

and I have seen how easily people break.


I am trying not to fuck this up

but I know how quickly tides can change

and I know how simple it would be to shatter you.


I could so easily break your heart

I've got it in the palm of my hand

and all it would take is one squeeze.


But I'll treat it like an egg

and do everything in my power to protect it

because that's the heart that loves me


I am trying to love you

but the only way I know how to love

will break you beyond repair.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 7/21/17

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Finding the words

Taken for granted by most,is the gift of fluent speech.

For some the next word can seem just out of reach.

A mild stutterer can sometimes speak a sentence with no pause.

For the heavily inflicted at times saying one word is a loss cause.


Fear of judgement,can mean in public,some dont speak.

Understanding,patience is what most sufferers seek.

Someone struggling with their words is not a figure of fun.

If only they could wake up one morning with the stutter gone.


With speech therapy,the lucky can make the problem cease

But from their verbal prison,many never find sweet release.

With time and practice most can make the problem less.

Learning to live with the stutter,often is for the best.




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Who Am I?

I am a shadow, long gone
I am forgotten, disappointments spawn
I am the weeping, in nights silent hour
From society, who savors the sour
I am the dark, stuck within my fears
I am denied, to them and all who hears
I was a dreamer, now hiding within my sleep
From the all of the promises that I can not keep
I am a shadow, long gone

I loved, and I loved you well.
Even after you challenge me hell
I remember, she parted us, you and I
She kissed your cracks, promising you lies
She left you broken, by the dead
But me, I wanted you by my side, to cherish instead

Author's Notes/Comments: 

An old class assignment I digged up.

It was supposed to be more simple and straightforward.

But I remember, I couldn't help myself from twisting it up


Which results with this


Things Change

Once I was privileged

I had enough to get by

More than enough to get high

I was raised and taught to always try


Then things changed

All of a sudden, I was broke

I felt different from other folk

But to the rest, I was just a joke


But then I found love

I was never alone

Always had my girl on the phone

She was closer to me than a clone


Then things changed

Suddenly I became jaded

Requited love became belated

What I once adored, I soon hated


But then I found friends

I had the most tight-knit crew

The family you choose, that much is true

They kept me blushing when I felt blue


Then things changed

Friends became failed relationships

Our bonds cracked like frostbitten lips

Our foundations shakier than belly-dancer hips


But then I found myself

For once in my life I felt alright

No drama to deal with, no battles to fight

I smiled in the mirror to my delight


Then things changed

I got so angry, I was always pissed

My mirror became bad luck after it met my fist

So I dug a reflective shard inches into my wrist

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Practice makes perfect

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Too Bad

I speak my mind.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


I bear you my soul.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


I believe that all beings and 

life forms are all the same, 

and different, 

at the same time, 

and that we are slowly losing 

our connection to this concept 

as a species, and it is destroying us.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


I believe there is a sanctity 

that lies within each individual,

every animal,

every life form.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


Don't like my

style of self-expression?

My authenticity?

My 'attitude'?

My disgust with closed-minded people?

My honesty?

My truth?


It's just plain too bad.

I love yours, and I hope 

one day we can meet halfway.



4:20 PM 6/28/2013











Author's Notes/Comments: 

"too bad"

Having it all or Not having it all?

Having it all means being satisfied with what I have. It means being happy with the gifts God gives me on a day to day basis, which I usually am not. Why? Because I am on Supplemental Security Income, which is the lowest level of disability one can receive in America. Therefore I barely have enough to get by. Since my wife is also on SSI we get the married rate, which is just over $1,000.00 per month. That may sound like a lot of money but it actually puts us somewhere like 60% below the federal poverty level!  

This is why I have trying so hard to launch my new magazine Mid-Ohio Valley Poetry Magazine. The only real skill I have is that of writing. I think editing this magazine and publishing it may be my ticket off of the government disability nipple. The problem is that I'm not getting subscribers. The magazine is well worth it. It will be between 7-10 pages long, stapled along the sides, with various genres of poetry in each issue. It will also have a dynamite Christian column by our permanent Christian columnist Kathy Nemec. The first issue will be printed in June. Subscriptions are $15.00 for postal delivery to the USA only. $10.00 for the e-zine. The June issue will feature haikus, short stories, and some free style poetry also.

I want to get off of SSI so badly and the magazine is my only shot. Buy subscriptions and advertise for me. That will allow me to truly have it all. You see I used to lie to myself and tell myself that I was okay on disability. Then my family started doing without things. I didn't notice for a long time because I was strung out on medications and alcohol. Now I'm sober and I see them doing without food. I see clothes piling up because I don't have $1.00 to buy laundry soap. I won't allow that. I need income. I can't drive to a regular job due to epilepsy. So my magazine idea has to fly. You guys are my family. I wanted to pitch you first. You can subscribe through my website www.marvinspoetrypage.com.

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Benevolent Nebula

Lost and confused, yet daring and bold,
Silly and innocent at 14 years old,
Devoid of a mother, dreaming of a lover,
With closed mind and open heart, not a clue of where to start,
Aimless, wandering towards an abyss,
Missed four months of menses, from a prison-bound kiss.
Paralyzed, fearsome of taking account,
The cost I would pay, was a lifetime amount,
Destined, without a goodbye from a soul,
The rug pulled out from under, lost...no control,
A baby is born to a child alone,
In a frightening place, a cold hospital zone,
No one is present to hold her cold hands,
Sneers and contempt, nurses scoff and demand.
Life is preserved, but a spark inside dies,
Questions unanswered, at best she's told lies,
Darkness ensues and becomes her befriended,
Adoption is evident, this journey is ended,
But then it's unfinished, more searching to do,
A marriage, a carriage, some wine, a corkscrew,
A nose of cocaine and a fist full of weed,
To fill up and cover the pain...with godspeed

Years of self loss and a belly of rum,
It's been 10 years gone by, my Lord...this is not fun.
Cleaning it up feels as good as can be,
At 35 years old...wondering where the hell's me?
When you're sure what is missing can never be found,
Never think that your past won't come sneaking around.
So the child now 20, finally we greeted,
Surreal as it was, neither one of us were cheated,
Babies are born in the world to be free,
They belong to no one...not you, not me,
I will never forget you, nor how we did feel,
You said you felt 'whole', I say, 'finally real'.
Scattered and fragile, like menageries of glass,
Treasure life's memories, however deep the crevasse,
We can all become vicitms of loss in this world,
How we choose to accept it, savored, or hurled,
Weaves the fiber of all future bloodlines to come,
You can let go the line, or bridge the chasm.
People will be who they are, leave them be,
Some only awaken when it's too late to see,
Love is intriguing, some think it's a fad,
Some want just good things, they deny the bad,
I never regretted a moment of mine,
Good, bad, indifferent, it's been sweet and sublime,
Grateful for everythng, how could I miss?
My dark side was what guided me into my bliss.



Copyright 2013 ©

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Part of my road towards living my truth. This is more about adoption in the 70s than it is about me.


Born into a life of poverty hardship and squalor
where hunger bites and disease is rife
in the dirty cobbled crowded streets
where it's a daily battle
to stay to stay alive
and find a morsel of food
to survive.

Uneducated illiterate
caught in the poverty trap
drinking polluted water
from the same cholera riddled tap.

An impoverished woman
sells her body for a bottle of gin
and a lodging for the night
a pickpocket and mucher
ever watchful wait for a victims
pocket to alight.

Children run through the narrow streets
dressed in rags no shoes on their dirty feet
the putrid smell from the gutter
and the thick smoke
from the choking bellowing chimneys
make it hard to breath
rats as big as cats
scurry and spread disease.

Dilapidated buildings covered in black soot
horse manure and raw sewage under foot.

Beggars flea infested with large mournful eyes
reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry
to fill their bowls with plenty.

A peeler posts a notice
of a forth coming hanging
at the local Gaol on a rusty nail
for the few who can read.

A desperate mother
with hungry children
steals a loaf of bread from a market stall
a yell goes out 'thief'!
and she is soon captured in the sprawl.

The judge sentences her to 10 years penal servitude
far away over the sea to Botany bay
but she dies upon the ship of fever
upon the way.

Her children are sent to the hellish workhouse
for the poor not to see their Mother no more.

A nightmare of a life of poverty crime and squalor.

Peter Dome. copyright.2012.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For mortality rate of inner city children at the time, was as high as 74%,died before the age of 5.

A mucher, was someone who robbed drunks and the dead, A peeler was a early policeman, named after their founder, Robert Peel. A Goal, was a Jail, that's how it was spelled at the time.

People could be sentenced to years of hard labour, and sent to Australia simply for stealing a loaf of bread.

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