Angels cry when our dreams are not fulfilled.

I stand on the edge of nothing, I speak to it, because I speak of the people.

Poem, a dirge a painful lament.

The house my grandfather built when he came from Ireland to Staten Island, NY was number 37. He raised his family there and my mother raised all of us 10 children there. The house no longer belongs to the family since everyone’s passing, but remains such an important part of my life.

Call her.

A sonnet.

An average attempt at an acrostic poem.

This is a very small blurb of a novel I have been writing for several months now, and thankfully I am on the last three chapters.

The book is called, "Life is Complicated."

Who says skinny is the only sexy?

Poem about the tribulations of triond membership.