I am an avid writer. I am constantly writing whatever pops into my head.
Ex.
Alone. Despair. It’s a sad thing when the one thing you want in the world is out of reach. How hard is it to find an old style pepper mill?It seems years ago waiters and waitresses would ask you if you wanted fresh ground pepper on your salad, or your pasta. Now it’s 2006, and you have to pour it on yourself. You might take the job, but your salad will never taste the same. That spark of freshness is dead along with the design. There’s just something missing. It wasn’t just pepper corns, or the way it was packaged. It was hard work and dedication that made up those spices. And the waitress or waiter was the messenger, the liaison between the migrant workers and the always right customer.
There is nothing worse than coming up with an idea and forgetting it before you jot it down. I write sketches, short stories, lyrics, plays, and am currently working on my first screenplay. Check out some of my pieces.
NEMESIS: 2 M. Walter Greyes is a wealthy business man who seems to have acquired the American dream; a beautiful wife, a nice home, and three kids, and for him it is all a bore. He befriends a low life second hand citizen named Johnny, and Walter's life gains some energy. This one act play shows the problems that can occur when a person takes action to reduce mundane life. (Note: Contains Explicit Language and Adult Content) |
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Un-Time: 1 M. Liam Rhodes has just caught his wife sleeping with another man on what seems to be the best day of his life. This monlouge play shows all of us that life is full of surprises, and that how a simple everyday routine can have its consequences. (Note: Contains Explicit Language and Adult Content) |
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My rendition of a classic childhood character; the true story behind the so called man of snow and his magic hat... |
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Night: A Poem Written Sometime in College
Going outside; playing music indoors.
The night is warm and unforgiving.
My hands ache with the memories of repeated motion.
My friends are farther from me then they have ever been, and my work consumes me.
I am still not the remains or an empty shell of who I use to be.
I am still smiling as the symbol of what is 'home' falls apart in front of my eyes.
My music needs some much needed work, but time is not in my favor.
I feel angry at myself that I have let my playing fall below the level of satisfactoy.
My talent for the arts is fleeting the longer I am away from it.
My soul grows dim because of it.
I pack up my instrument for the night.
The ceiling fan is all I hear.
