“I really do need to get this book written,” I replied, hunched over my laptop at the kitchen table, trying my best to ignore her piercing gaze pointed in my direction. “I’m already two weeks past the publisher’s deadline, and my first manuscript was rejected.”

“Rejected? You never told me that,” Sophia said, twirling a lock of red hair with her fingers.

“It’s not the kind of news you go shouting from the rooftops. But it’s okay.”

Sophia sat down next to me and fired up the joint. Blowing a cloud of swirling smoke into the air. “I’d be beside myself if that happened to me. I have a real issue with rejection.”

“It used to bother me a lot too. Especially in terms of creativity. You pour your heart and soul into a project, spending countless days and nights perfecting it, only to have it dismissed on a whim.”

“Well, you seem remarkably calm about it all,” Sophia said smiling.

“Rejection is a learning curve and it took me a while to come to terms with it. Until I realized it was just a temporary setback and an opportunity to do something even better. Now when it happens to me, I think of myself as a tiny rubber ball. The harder I get hit—the faster I bounce back.”

“I love that! Honestly, you should be a philosopher not a poet,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, passing me the glowing joint.

I took a long hard drag and instantly felt the effects. “Fuck, this is strong stuff!”

Sophia burst out laughing. “Hey, I just thought of a title for your next book.”

“Really? What is it?” I asked.

“Self-Help for Stoners.”

Let It Go

Never let anger get the better of you. No matter how justified it might seem at the time, in hindsight, it seldom solves or changes anything for the better. Find the courage to forgive yourself, even if you can’t forgive them.

In Your Silence

In your silence—it is the essence of who you are, the kindness that defines your heart, that speaks to me the loudest.

Devotion

Every Sunday—

a sermon served,

in silk robes

and silver rings.

The gold plate

passed around—

collecting coins

from empty pockets.

Come Monday—

we work for

our daily bread.

Bought with sweat

and broken backs.

Praying—

for a miracle.

Far Too Late

The inexplicable,

in hindsight—

explained.

The opened gate

I tried to close—

far too late.

Can you hear

the echo of regret?

Bouncing

off the walls

of a heart—

broken.

Written by You

When I read the words you wrote, what really hurt me the most, was that they were written by you.

Second Helping