Wednesday, February 27, 2019

I'm 22

"I'm 22" by Tiffany Carbaugh

I’m 22 with 3 kids.
I have 3 sets of eyes watching everything that I do.
3 sets of eyes learning and mocking everything that I am.
They are my heart and I am their world.
I am 22,
But have a mindset of a 60 year old.
I should’ve been born in another lifetime.
I’m old fashioned.
I do things most people gawk at.
I am 22,
But I have been through what most won’t go through in a whole lifetime.
I’m independent.
I grew up raising myself.
I learned from life mistakes at a very young age.
Not all were my own,
But from my eyes watching carefully of those around me.
Don’t let that fool you.
Being independent can get you into a lot of trouble.
Never be afraid to ask for or accept help.
A piece of my own advice that I still need to listen to.
I am 22,
I’ve been cheated on one to many times.
Almost more than one can count.
I’ve been lied to.
I’ve been mentally, emotionally, and physically abused.
To the point of which I started to believe everything was my fault and I deserved everything he did to me.
I was consumed in fear.
Terrified of leaving.
Led to believe that no one else would want me anyways.
I am 22,
I have been held down and raped.
So much so, that eventually it became routine,
To the point of which my body would freeze up and the whole world would stop in those moments.
I am 22,
I was “knocked up” at the age of 17 because he eventually “stopped caring.”
I can still hear his words.
“I’m going to dump in you like the trash you are.”
I built up the courage to leave him 3 months into my pregnancy because he didn’t care that I had another life growing inside me.
Everyday I thank god for my brother’s help.
I am 22,
I spent 5 years emotionally drained with an alcoholic who did the same things when intoxicated.
Those 3 sets of eyes that are watching me, had to witness their mommy being hurt.
Had to witness their daddy drinking alcohol like it was water.
Had to witness doing things he wouldn’t do if he were sober such as peeing on the floor.
Had to witness him hurting their kitty, destroying the house, and him being held at gun point by 10 cops in the driveway because he had his pistol to mommies head.
I am 22,
I realized staying with daddy for the kids sake was hurting them more than helping.
I knew I needed to walk away and jumped from place to place with 3 kids until I got on my feet because he took everything from us.
I am 22,
I have been through more than what most won’t go through in a whole lifetime.
But I have learned that even though I am damaged,
It is easier to go through life laughing than it is angry.
Because I have 3 sets of eyes watching me.
Learning everything that I do.
And though I have been through a lot,
Those 3 sets of eyes are what makes it all worth it.
And if I could go back in time, I’d do it all the same because it’s made me who I am and gave me those 3 beautiful babies. They are who gave life meaning.
What’s life, without meaning?

Where To?

"Where To" by Azeneth Maus

BIO: Been writing as long as I can remember. Poetry before the age of 13, raps after. Just recently got back to writing poetry and released a Poetry Photo eBook on Blurb: Antares, The Heart of the Scorpion; The Black Book, A Collection of Poems. It’s a poetry photo book with poems of healing, nurturing, and power. Hard copy is in the works, as well as a couple of Poetry/Story Books, which will be available where books are sold very soon. 


"Purgatory" by Sammy Payne

BIO: I am a 27 year old poet based in the UK who writes mostly about my experiences battling mental health issues. I started writing at age 13 as an emotional outlet and have been an avid writer ever since. The main goals of my writing are to get my own emotions off my chest and to show other people who deal with similar issues in life that they are not alone and there are people out there who can understand their situation. 

Monday, February 25, 2019

Hate Letter

"Hate Letter" by Steven P. Mendoza

I hate you as a person from the end since the start, I love u as a memory I reminisce of in my heart
You linger in the shadows of my dreams night and day
You come on strong, you don't belong, immense mental decay 

When you were there I didn't care and now you're gone it isn't fair, the feeling of a broken heart is that of a severed limb 

Obliged for another second chance I take it granted in advance, but it never came, what a shame for what couldn't of ever been

Love game, dance of death, you smother me, I lose my breath 
I walk away, you stay, I dont wanna play
Soon as I let my guard down, the deception will start,  you broke my fucking heart, you tore us apart

Never thought it'd come to this, the beginning of the end of days, I pray you find a way out of your self built toxic maze, you evil selfish ruthless bitch, I almost lost my life, there's no point in arguing cus I'm wrong and you're always right 

Perhaps it's just a depressing phase, that will pass in weeks or days, buts who's to say that I may not take it to the grave
Now I battle through temptation, searching for self salvation, binging on intoxication of narcotic medication

I try but cannot turn the page, I’m so fixated on my rage, I’m gonna get you back I swear it is my final plan
Karma will come for me, or maybe not I guess we’ll see, I’m so spiteful I’ll lose an arm just to see u lose a hand 

You will die, an eye for an eye, I don’t care if you beg or cry, it’s all a lie, I hate you and I just want you gone
Where did I go wrong? Why did this happen? I still love you and somethings telling me to walk away

I can’t go through with this, earlier I was pissed, but maybe I should prove I’m a better person than you
Love is a crazy drug, I think I need a break, it was all a mistake , next time it’s given out I’ll be sure not to take

Bio: Hi my name is Steven P. Mendoza. I'm from Chicago Illinois. I'm 25 years old, born May 4th, 1993 (Taurus). I'm Mexican, Puerto Rican, Irish, Lithuanian and Russian. My mother wrote poetry, my dad was a drummer, I inherited both of their gifts. Allot of the stuff I write is dark and probably wouldn't be enjoyed by most. I love grunge music for its deep feeling and touchy topics. I'm a recovering addict. I also own a Furby...his name is Whore-Hay...not sure what that has to do with anything but at least you know now. I have Borderline Personality Disorder so if you're trying to figure me out you better quit it...or just ask, silly. I'm also really good at Chess and math. I'll challenge you. And I like Resident Evil-AND POP! I LOVE SODA POP! Yeah, I'm retarded. Hope you like my work.

Social Media: 
Instagram- suic1d3mach1n3

Wednesday, February 6, 2019



The conclusion of the matter
Was a question of perception
It was never quite decided
Who was wrong
As we filter through the wreckage
There’s a pile of old excuses
As if lyrics from
An old familiar song
To replay a thousand questions
As we justify the reasons
Anyone can see the end result
Was right
For the truth remains a constant
Through a fog of indecision
Like a beacon to illuminate
The night
As we struggle with the construct
Of a book of explanations
To make sense of past mistakes
We both have made
There is nothing left to publish
But a manuscript of edits
Missing most of what
We truly want to say
So we have this little story
Like a chapter in a novel
Or a history condensed
Into a line
It’s the sum of our neglecting
That gives pause to our reflecting
As we tell ourselves
We both are doing fine
TM DiSarro
©2019 TM DiSarro/MindScapes Publishing

BIO: Writing is my passion and poetry occupies a significant block of my creative energy. When the time is favorable, I plan to publish a collection of poems and short stories, but until that time follow me on: Instagram@tmdisarro


“Labyrinth” by Kyle M. Salazar

Lost tendrils',
Cataclysmic whisper.
Death's eventual,
Icy air grows crisper.
Beneath a starry eternity,
Every path in this labyrinth.
Toward the only certainty,
Till eventually we rest.
Beyond the last moon's kiss,
There is nothing to be done.
Watch branches exist,
Stretching to what sun?
Leaves have retreated,
This bleakness feels surreal.
Like so many shattered pieces,
In these shadows, defeated;
Destiny does not come,
It is honed skills,
So many setting suns.
To truly be fulfilled,
There is work to be done.
You have to step out of the way,
Allow yourself to be someone,
That could be an entirely new page...
In a book larger than ourselves.
Set free from mortal cage,
So deeper we may delve.
Finding a purpose and a cause,
That exudes from within.
Finding time for pause,
To totally transcend.
May you find your passion,
The reason you are here.
Avoid the distractions,
Mission adhere.
Sometimes the purpose is not ours,
But simply to inspire.
Even wilted flowers,
Can start a remarkable fire.


BIO: Kyle M. Salazar.  I was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico and moved around a lot growing up. I decided to make the most of it; and made friends with different groups of people whenever we moved. I was a nerd, a skater, a jock, and even hung out on "smokers corner"(even though I didn't smoke). I wanted to see things from every perspective. I dropped out in the 10th grade; and have been working since I was 15. I received my GED, with double honors, in 2006, and went on to study at San Juan College in Farmington, New Mexico.

I am passionate about the art of poetry; the way you can paint a picture with your words. I have a strong appreciation for art, antiques, collectibles, and antiquarian books. I could have done anything. I chose a more difficult path. I suppose I never lost the desire to see things from all perspectives. I aspire to write. I am happiest when I can articulate and convey raw emotion, or be able to invoke them in another through written word.

Peter Magliocco

Plight of the Homeless Words

by Peter Magliocco

To hear what words say in the ear of the beholder
inspires an ongoing dialogue with something
tied to the existence of beginnings.
I posed as the homeless derelict once:
shouting epithets into the ears of passers-by
who refused my panhandling entreaties
with a deafness of the damned,

Hearing no melodies or worthy sermon
from lips of a ruddy transient
loose on the streets of Vegas where
he tried to disembowel time,
to burst forth sounds of disenthralled agony
as mothers & children, unaware, shuttled by
on their snacking-or-sipping ways.

In tourist fashion they abhorred my intrusions
of a brutalizing, verbal onslaught,
disdaining my ranting denunciations
dissolving into mere word-puddles only
a stray dog licked curiously, barking finally
at the vicious vowels its fangs lacerated
into silence.


The Liquid Horizon

by Peter Magliocco

No more is solace a mind game
for those who feel they truly feel
at the expense of others,
the way some would share grief being
trapped inside the collodion photos of Sally Mann.
With no exit from the Southern climate
the photographer sees & captures a revenant eyeful
of textures from an irrefutable history
that is past & present images of the earth,
giving way to a hallowed landscape
of eternity within the everyday fact
of an almost unbearable mundaneness.
I was pinioned inside her picture of reality
more real than any vision could possibly perceive,
watching the eyes of a dreamer torn out
so that fantasy was something only the mad saw
creeping from the mourning dove’s dying spirit.
There remains a photo of time itself caught
in the spirit trap of our orb’s desire,
what flashes slowly across the dawn’s horizon
when you ultimately see something akin
to an emotion of awe crystalized,
for the first time, in a vision no one’s tears
can keep you from ever seeing again.


Not the One, But Still

by Peter Magliocco

You are not the one who brings me grief
but the smallest figment instead
my blinking eye sees as the mote’s revenge:
or the insect on the lip of time
reminding me of its evanescence.

Or that bend of the road convincing me
there’s no direction home if I’m lost
to the destination my nature takes
(& my nature, what is it?) for
any real human being, tragic or good,

in its perverse seasons of becoming:
how each death of springtime rattles
when winter eventually approaches to
singe with frozen heat a missing summer,
& the glitter of something gone

to become my realness, my other grief.
You are not the one: but still
Jigsaw gnaws at my baring leg
with his saw’s artful blade,
cutting me from the puzzle.


BIO: --Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active in the small press for several years as editor, writer, and artist. He has poetry in The Literary Yard, The Pangolin Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, Ariel Chart, Pulp Poets Press, and has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Friday, February 1, 2019

Black Steed

"Black Steed" by Lea Boyd

In a cloud of dust 
He slid to a stop
Nostrils flared
Snorts of steam
Pawing the earth
Thundering hooves
Demanding attention
My ride has arrived
Black as the night
Eyes full of fire
On his back I climbed
As he bolted
I awoke from a dream
Bus hit a pothole
It was no
Black steed...


Bio: I am A Murky Mind, just a small town girl out to see the world. I have 2 books published of dark verse and poetry, working on short stories. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and some other places. Books are available on Amazon, Kindle and where ever books are sold. If they don't have it, ask them to get it. Thank you, you can reach me at or social media.