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Literature
Sanctuary of Filth
The morning sun,
beams through a broken window.
Revealing all that is wrong
in this sanctuary of filth.
If these walls could talk,
they would describe the assault
inflicted
upon the eyes of the weary.
On a floor of worn carpet
in a room with no door,
having been ripped from its hinges
long ago,
lay a lone mattress,
stained and decaying
tossed in a corner
like something discarded.
If these walls could talk,
they would describe junkie love.
Nude bodies entwined
and tangled,
committing acts
too lewd for this poem.
The ceiling above,
discolored and broken.
They would tell you of beauty
that once existed in this place
and love in whose
who once dwelled.
But these walls can’t talk,
their voices are silent
cracked and missing
from uneasy ground.
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Literature
In Light of Tragedy
In the heat of summer,
while everyone was attending backyard parties
and river trips, he spent most his days
in a hospital bed.
And then, we lost another brother.
In the changing climate of fall,
as the leaves found their way back to the earth
and the rains threatened to flood Texas,
my mother followed.
Then, in the mist of so much tragedy, winter came
and brought with it a spark of light
so bright it shielded us from the darkness.
Even if only for awhile.
On October 28th my first Grandson was born,
seven pounds, twelve ounces,
twenty-one inches long.
Maybe, just maybe, their passing
was to make room for so much beauty
still yet to come.
We can only hope.
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Literature
You Got This
Balance is the key
to sorting me out,
but I can’t master it.
How does one master a waterfall
or a hail storm?
I guess it goes back
to the illusion of control.
You know life happens to us
not the other way around,
but that doesn’t mean
we don’t play a part.
Is it the ice on the road
or the hands on the wheel?
I’d say it’s both,
but you won’t find any comfort
with that answer.
Instead maybe
just maybe
there will be someone beside you
saying,
you got this.
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Literature
We Dont Die Young
Turn the lights down low. Let me leave this place from the comfort of my own bed at seventy, quick. Sometimes I actually think I’ll be around to see the world die. That would be my luck, as it was my grandmother’s. The quality of life fades, but the heart and mind remain strong. I don’t wish to die, I just want to leave the station before the suffering rolls in, but we don’t die young.
My blood line speaks for itself. The latest to prove that fact is my father, a hard noised, whiskey drinking wild man. He rode his Heritage to the end of life and back again. Now, his roar has become a groan, but he’s still kicking near eighty. Most his friends are gone now, but their memory still lingers and he has his family.
If this doesn’t sound so bad, that’s because it isn’t, at least not yet. When your existence becomes agony and pain from bones that don’t work, lungs that struggle to breathe, or bowels that won’t move I’d rather ta
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Literature
Last Nights Run
There’s money in a stack
and a pistol on the floor.
A tattooed hand
dangling just above.
Whiskey bottles scattered
from last night’s run;
a dance with the devil
in the main event.
The ashtrays full
of cigarette butts.
Smoke still lingers
in the air.
The light bulb flickers
to its last breath.
Shadows move
with impending dread.
The dis-hearted sleep
while sirens wail,
up the street
and across the hill.
A crash through the door
and that’s the end.
It’s hard being poor
in Houston, Texas.
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Literature
Our Own Melody
She speaks to me in the night,
telling tales of life and love
and loss.
Her voice is soft and melodic,
almost hypnotizing.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
And I know, I could rise and fall to her melody
for the rest of my life.
If only she were mine.
She devotes so much, more so
than I would ever allow her to give.
After all,
life is meant to be lived
and she deserves better.
I imagine us as a team, playfully arguing
over whom would be the master chef of the evening.
We would dine and drink and laugh.
Then after words,
she would start to clean,
but I would have none of it;
whisking her off her feet
and carrying her to our hide away.
There, I would make her sing,
our bodies becoming one,
with no rules or barbed wire.
We would make our own melody
and then, when the sun hit our eyes
I would think to myself,
this must be
what heaven feels like.
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Literature
Thoughts on Heaven
Hearing those horns play, that easy Reggae strum on the guitar, the sound of the bongos with a steady hip hop beat in the back ground; I imagine heaven sounds that way. You can’t help but groove to it. It just happens naturally.
Watching the smoke bellow from the pits; it fills the air with the scent of oak and hickory mixed with red pepper, garlic, and onion; maybe that’s what heaven smells like. If not, it should.
Sipping on my favorite Irish whiskey, a good woman by my side, she gives me a warm smile with eyes that don’t hate. Surrounded by old friends laughing and cheering “Brosk Man Bruda”, we’d say before tapping the table and downing a shot. Maybe that’s what heaven feels like. If not, it should.
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Literature
The Quiet
There is a calm
amongst the empty pages,
but loneliness lurks
in the quiet.
Turning the corner
weighs less than the past,
but the scenery
still eludes me.
There is no cloud
of unrelenting despair
to corrupt or distort
my vision.
There is no chaos
surrounding me,
razing everything
I touch.
Instead I lack
the one thing that does not bend,
the one thing
that does not give.
It waits for nothing
and takes everything.
Time
is not
my ally.
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Literature
Easy Melody
There is solace
in the empty spaces of existence,
but those are few and far between.
That’s what I used to think,
but there’s a fine line
between company and chaos.
It seems either the walls scream
or I am lonely.
What I need is a medium;
voices of monotone,
of reason, with no burden of my life
or their own,
just a nice easy melody.
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Literature
All That Counts
You grind it out because you have to. You keep on doing no matter what. You round the corners the best you can and the best you can is all that counts. You take care of your own because you’re all they’ve got. It doesn’t much matter if they see it not; it doesn’t much matter if they understand your grind. Without you, they know only darker skies. Face it, they owe you everything, including their lives. And your best effort, is all that can rightfully be expected for you. So keep your chin up.
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Literature
Scattered Thoughts
Something about green grass, white sand,
and wine, though I’m not much of a wine drinker.
Still, I understand.
Bragging about iron clad profanity
and how it rolls off the tongue;
yeah I got that one too.
Two dimes and a nickel may not equal much,
but the line rhymes; guess I'm reaching for that one,
but we do what we can.
A fifth of whiskey may turn me sideways,
but it’s all good when it’s lost in the ether.
Beer may as well flow from a fountain, because I drink for a reason.
Smiles are free, but that doesn’t mean they come easily,
especially when your friends and family flying away
and the mouths you feed don’t much care about anything,
all while ashes keep falling to the floor.  
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Literature
Steve Duke
You got your wings
on May 22nd 2014
and now,
we’ve lost another brother.
With roots that stretched deep
beneath the streets of Spring Branch,
you were like the hood mascot
or something.
I’ve known you
my entire life
and you
will certainly be missed.
Go easy, brother
this one’s for you.
Someday,
we’ll meet again.
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Literature
Theater of Freaks
Bizarre stage acts, razors blades, and candle wax
Shrink wrap, techno beats, and strobe lighting
G-strings and corsets, fishnet stockings, and black lipstick
Canes that look like peppermint, top hats, and funny glasses
There is no shame beyond these doors, so many freaks amongst the masses
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Literature
Blurred and Distorted
Rays of light assault my eyes,
resisting the urge to open.
The sounds I hear within my head
are slow to comprehend.
The rustle of leaves against a breeze
that flows across my skin,
the scent of earth that fills my nostrils
reinforces the need to wake.
Eyes open, but do not see,
colors blurred and distorted.
Kaleidoscopes of florescent green,
makes me sick to my stomach.
Birds fly much like people drive,
with the impatience of motion.
From the ground my world spins full
three hundred and sixty degrees.
Bent and curled unable to rise
with legs made of rubber,
on the lawn is where I stay
suffering alcoholic blunder.
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Literature
A Few Things
In the beginning
we love everything;
the mobile that hangs
above our head,
the rattle in our hand,
that favorite stuffed animal
or blanket
we put so much faith in.
When the only word for God
is mother and we never have to endure
or pretend, but as time goes on,
those damaging tides roll in.
With each blue crush of the pipe,
we twist and bend,
until only a few things remain
that we truly love.
It’s at that moment of realization,
as if trying to retain our own innocence;
we pull close that which we still hold dear
and thank God above.
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Literature
The American Lie
What screws us up most often in life, is our expectation of it. That whole great job, one love, white picket fence, little house on the prairie, with notches on the wall to mark how much the children have grown, is a great dream, but that’s all it is –a dream. If you’ve accomplished even half of it, then be thankful, because it’s more than most.
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JJ-Lit
Jay
United States
About me

I’m a middle aged white boy with a past, present, and god willing a future. I’ve lived hard and fast most my life and now it seems I’m slowing. I work for a living and play on the weekends. I enjoy Nascar, Bourbon, and BBQ and I love to grill. I also love to write and I love music. I’m no musician, but I am an enthusiast. My genres include punk rock, Rip Hop, and Reggae music and I don’t do much without them. I enjoy tattoos, back yard parties with friends, and just having a good time in general. I try not to cause problems for anyone and I hate drama. Basically I just want to take care of my responsibilities, my kids, and have a good time along the way. I guess you could say I’m a fairly simple guy.

As for writing, my interest began in late 2008-early 2009. Since then I like to think I’ve grown as a writer, but like most things we embark on I know I will forever be a student of literature. Now, I would love to categorize my writing style for you, throw out words like fixed form and free verse, but I gave that up almost immediately. Instead, I just call it life poetry and tag it as spoken-word leaving the rest up to you. I sincerely hope you enjoy what you find here.

Current Residence: Texas
Interests

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:iconmeregoddess:
meregoddess Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!  Just wanted to tell you in case you come back....
Reply
:iconchocolate-waterfall:
Chocolate-Waterfall Featured By Owner Dec 19, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Hey thanks for that favorite. Sorry I haven't been on to say thanks in a while.
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:iconleyghan:
leyghan Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for faving Good Vibrations.
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:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there, bud.  Thank you for the support!  :)
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:iconmuscularteeth:
muscularteeth Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2015
Thanks!!
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:iconsnapperz:
Snapperz Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2015   Writer
Thanks very much for the Watch and all. :D I shall return the favor. You seem like an intriguing fellow. 
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:iconjj-lit:
JJ-Lit Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2015
You're welcome and thank you as well.
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:iconbrassteeth:
brassteeth Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2015
Thanks.
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:iconlancelotprice:
LancelotPrice Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2015
Howdy, JJ! :)
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:iconjj-lit:
JJ-Lit Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2015
Hello Lance :)
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