I am a poet undeserving of the title for poems written does not a poet make.

Sample from "Pseudo-Postal Freak," an online journal:

October 19, 2001

October. The sun has turned its back on all prospects and left me blinded by the aftertaste. Black on burnt red wood. It all comes back. So I can't hold it in. I never claimed to be anyones pillar anyway. Time has me jaded. Now I'm not so certain anymore. But the ways of time and the ways of you are only painful reminders of all that I am not. Afflicted I most certainly am. The salt against my cheek burns. And there are only my tears. Only mine. I breathe but no air stirs. I see but nothing in your face changes. I hold on so tight. But when will I realize what it is I am holding onto. Nothing.

And dark your eyes. Dark your eyes.

What it would be like to live in a black and white world. Where skin is smooth yet grainy like wet ash. Untouchable but visible. Where tears are second-hand nature and part of the scenery. Every movement is a kneel for pain... a bend to the utter consumption of misery.