The mirror in the antique story had what they called patina, which to me means out of date, frayed around the edges, worn-out, with maybe a few cracks. The face looking back at me in this old mirror might have been the mother of all patina. I look like one of those ancient photos people on television excitably scream about when they find them hidden in the attics. Here is old Uncle Rufus, they say, I think he was in the Civil War or something. The self-conscious look of someone who has seen too much in life, but now is…

My writing career can be measured in decades, not years. I was born to write, as you might have been, and writing has been the only consistent thing in my long journey in life.

Relationships fail, and I wrote about it. Business was good, and I wrote a few books that taught others how they too could be successful. I survived as a presenter, going endless laps around the world, yet I wouldn’t have lasted a day without my writing as the basis for all I did. …

All he has is what he once was
I knew him as a kid
Glory days in his life
He was the best of who we were
Always the one who showed
us how it was done
His future a path
lined with money
as one of the chosen ones
He is the one,
we all knew it,
the one who would shine
his light on the rest of us

I hadn’t seen him
in thirty years
I am in town,
he whispered,
late night phone call
slurring and mumbling
Can I come see
you tomorrow

He sat slumped over…

Get rid of the people in life who take it all and give nothing. Kick them all out of your life, now, before you change your mind and fall for their story of need and misery one more time.

There are always people in life who wrap themselves in a blanket of unhappiness and misery, then make it their life’s work to pull as many people as possible under their blanket of personal suffering with them.

We make the mistake of thinking we can change that person. If we just do a little more for him or her, cry a…

Not many of us left now
The dying breed of poets
writing their sad lines,
begging for a few dollars of validation

Many of our poetic voices
have left us
Their poems from the heart ignored
Their words of jilted love,
never enough

The last poetic junkies
sit in the darkness in the wee hours
Scribbling pages of pain and sorrow
Sharing their tortured words
with an ever shrinking
band of followers

You want money they are told? …

My writing eases the pain of existing in a world gone mad, and writing might be the only outlet I have keeping me sane in such an insane world. I tried excessive drinking to block out the insanity, but found I couldn’t type as well, so I switched to sipping wine and writing in my notebooks.

Writing drains my anger and eases my frustration living in a world where anger is presented daily by many as a badge of honor. …