Remember

Remember

Betrayal's dagger
can only strike from behind,
held in a friend’s hand.

 

Therapy

Charlie turned on to McGary St. He didn’t really have anywhere specific to drive, he was just driving.

He had Hank jr. cranked up on his radio, and his windows down with the air conditioner on. While his day had started crappy, this was improving it. This was more therapeutic and effective to deal with his stressors than any plans or processes that some over paid counselor could come up with.

Half-way down the block, near the bus terminal, a couple men decided to cut across the road. One saw Charlie coming and jogged across the lane so that he wasn’t in the way. The other made eye contact and threw his arms out as he slowed down.

He looked every bit like a walking cliché of a junkie. Barley shaved hair, sickly pasty skin even in the sun, scabs, and a beard that just didn’t seem like it could grow. Sporadic shitty tattoos, including a large red and black one on his arm that Charlie could just make out as “Judgeless”.

Charlie almost felt a pang of pity.

 “What?” he shouted at Charlie. “I said WHAT, mother fucker?”

The pang of pity disappeared.

Charlie, forced to a crawl in order to pass him, leaned out his window, and pointed up the street to where the crosswalk was.

“You’re outta pocket, Man,” Charlie said. “You’re supposed to use the crosswalk so that you don’t bounce off a hood.”

“The fuck you gonna do, boy?” the man sneered. “Get on outta that truck and teach me the law? Try it! Try it!"

Charlie laughed and shook his head. As he started to drive away, the man spat on the back of his truck.

“Ok,” Charlie mumbled. “Ok.”

He drove a block up and turned the corner. Finding a parking spot, he got out and pulled off his hoodie. He threw on his flannel jacket from his passenger seat, his ballcap and sunglasses, and started walking back towards the bus station.

On principle, he crossed at the crosswalk, but his eyes were scanning the people milling around at the terminal. Half of them looked lost, listless, or strung out. The other half looked terrified that the others would approach them.

Then Charlie spotted him. He was standing off by the corner of the bus terminal by the sidewalk and some bushes with the man he had crossed the road with. He was smoking a cigarette and laughing, presumably about his theatrics in the middle of the street.

At first, Charlie wasn’t sure, but after a moment of staring, Charlie knew it was the guy. The blonde stubble on top of his head revealing inevitable impending balding, the patchy face hair that looked more like mange than a beard, and the scabs on the side of his face hinting at a more serious addiction that the cigarette he was currently smoking. The “Judgeless” tattoo on his right arm was the clincher, however. It was Meth Man.

Charlie slowed down and looked around. Everyone seemed caught up in their own little world, and the cameras were all pointed towards the terminal area, not out towards the street or edges of the lot.

Perfect.

He was an arm reach away now.

“Hey, got a smoke?” Charlie asked.

As the man turned, Charlie swung, connecting true with the joint of the man’s jaw. He fell sideways into the bush. Charlie grabbed the man’s leg and dragged him from where he landed. The bush and the rocks beneath him scratched at his skin as Charlie pulled him out and onto the dirt beside the sidewalk.

Charlie looked over at the other man. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

The man threw his arms up and backed away, eyes wide.

Charlie knelt beside Meth Man, who didn’t even attempt to stand or fight, but was now cradling his face and screaming.

“Crosswalk,” Charlie said loudly. 

Meth Man kept screaming, so Charlie gave his face a slap. “Hey, shut up and focus on me.”

The man’s screaming turned into moans of agony, but he was staring straight at Charlie with his bloodshot eyes that seemed filled with equal parts hatred and tears from the pain. 

“Good,” Charlie said. “Now, the next time you cross a road, use the crosswalk. And if you ever, and I mean ever, get the gumption to spit on a man’s truck again…”

Charlie leaned in and drew his fist back. The man flinched and pulled his arms over his head.

“…reconsider that gumption.” Charlie said. Instead of punching, Charlie patted the man’s shoulder.

 As he stoof up looked around, leaving Meth Man holding his head in the dust at his feet. Meth Man’s friend was still wide eyed and holding his hands up like he was in a hold up scene from a movie.  No one else was even looking their way. Most were too busy staring at their phones or nodding off from whatever substance was in their system.

He dusted his jeans and walked back the way he had come. His hand hurting like all get out, but otherwise, he felt great.

Best Therapy session in a long time, he thought to himself as he waited for the crosswalk light to change. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Celoj

 Celoj

Mi provas lerni

la lingvo Esperanto

lerni aliajn.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Lundo

 Lundo

Ho, kia honto!
Estas tre bela tago,
Sed, mi laboras!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Authors note: Readers of the following poem should note that is a sort of reflection of WB Yeats poem 'The Second Coming'. While mirrored in its composition, it also seeks to be a continuation of his narrative,  an updated answer to his question of what beast slouches towards Bethlehem to be born...

A New Dawn

The widening gyre continues to turn,
The falcon continues without concern,
Ruins more common, the center falters,
society sprawls upon dark altars,
Hateful, their bloody thirst can’t be sufficed,
our innocents stolen as sacrifice;
Our potential heroes refuse to act
for fear their families will be attacked.

Surely our people will wake and notice,
Surely a New Dawn will burn the lotus.
A New Dawn! I can barely pen the words
without visions of that dark silhouette:
the bloody lion of a bloody god
demanding blood tribute without mercy,
moving to and fro with its dark purpose;
Sunbirds drowning en mass in its shadows.
Robes attempt to veil our eyes, but we know
those centuries of calculated lies
we were force-fed with that desert lotus
for this dark hour of culmination:
The foul desert beast set loose on the world. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Shadows

Shadows

How they swirl around

To fill my thoughts with terror
That I'm losing hold. 

Suppress

Suppress

Breathe in and Breathe out
this can't control you
if you control it. 

Morning Elixir

Morning Elixir

A lemon juice shot,
Potassium, Salt, and water...
Stir, then down the hatch!

August

 Black marker. 
          One swipe.
Another day gone. 
Black marker. 
          One swipe.
Another day gone. 
Black marker. 
          One swipe.
Tear off the sheet. 
I stare at the paper, 
          Covered in one black swipe at a time
Before crumbling it and throwing it away. 
I stare at the new sheet. 
         No swipes, no black, 
But full of darkness in its own right. 
A new sheet for a new month
          Last month trashed...underutilized...
Joy, fun, memories,
         Intended,  postponed, dreamt of...
Swiped away with each day...
This new sheet...
         Fresh...pure...promising...
Marks the new year for me...
         Marks another year gone
Lost to complacency and distraction....
         But...perhaps...as I notice: another chance?

Aurora

 Aurora

Hail to Aurora,
who has risen in the east
to grace us with light!

DC Graffiti

 

DC Graffiti

“You’re making the loops too small,” Danny whispered. “No one is gonna be able to read that!”

“You don’t like how I paint, get your ass over here and do it,” Gavin hissed back. “Otherwise, just keep your eyes open for scouts.”

Danny shook his head as he looked at Gavin’s letter C.

“Too small,” he muttered as he looked back out of the alley to the main road.

Nothing was quite the same since the federalization of the city. While it had been welcomed at first, it turned into a nightmare of providing documentation just to get through “criminal check points” on a day-to-day basis. Danny’s dad had refused once, video taping the interaction for social media as proof of the unconstitutional actions of the troops.

He was swiftly detained and had been in detainment ever since. Three months later, neither Danny nor his mother were able to talk to him or even get a lawyer to him. “Security reasons” being the cited reason by those who would actually talk to his mother. The video had disappeared with the phone and was never uploaded.

Gavin’s old man just disappeared one night on his way back from work. No one talks to Gavin, being a minor, and since his dad was his sole parent, Gavin lived with Danny now. While his mother was distracted with overtime now that his dad was “detained”, it left Danny and Gavin some time to work with the resistance.

Mostly other Teens who snuck out on various nights to tag buildings and bridges with messages of discontent over the military occupation of their city. Danny looked back at the small c loops in “Occupied” as Gavin stepped back to admire his work.

“Loops are too small,” Danny whispered again.

“Shut up about the loops,” Gavin said. “We got it done. Let’s go.”

“Stop where you are!”

They both jumped and looked around, pressing themselves against the alley wall. 

“Stop now, or we’ll be forced to shoot!”

“We aren’t moving!” Danny tried to shout. His voice, however, seemed lost somewhere between his throat and his mouth. All that came out was an squeaky yet guttural croak that sounded more like a dying frog than a boy’s voice.

He didn’t have a chance to try again when the shots rang out. A body slammed onto the pavement in front of the alley way and skidded a bit before coming to a halt. Something metallic rolled from the body towards them and stopped against Danny’s foot.

Danny grew cold and tried to fight back the bile that surged into his mouth.

He lost the fight.

Danny lurched over and vomited all over what was at his feet.

“It’s paint,” he said spitting out the remnants of his vomit.

“Is that Clark?” Gavin whispered. He took a step towards the body.

Danny looked at the face. It was a vacant look in newly dead eyes that somehow seemed to be staring at him accusingly.  

“We have to go!” Danny hissed. He pulled Gavin’s arm just as Gavin had started to walk towards Clark.

The approaching footfalls of others registered in his ears, and it snapped his mind back from Clark’s face. Gavin dropped his own paint and ran as hard as he could.

The next few blocks would be a blur that neither of them would remember for a night that neither of them would forget.

***

The soldiers began setting up a small perimeter around the body to ensure no one could get close to it.

“Another kid?”

“They didn’t know it was a kid, Sarge,” a soldier beside him replied. “They saw a glint from the can and thought it was a weapon.”

“Looks like there were more down this alley,” came a call behind them. The Sergeant looked towards where the soldier was shining his light from the cans of paint, the vomit and then up to the graffiti.

“Do the C’s look weird?” the soldier asked. “Do you think its code for something?”

“Who knows?” the Sergeant replied.  He turned back to the body at his feet. “Let’s focus on saving our asses on this issue first, and then we’ll figure out your conspiracy theory on another day.”

“I dunno. I think it’s the small loop of the Cs that are throwing me,” the soldier continued. “They’re too small, don’t you think?”

The Sergeant sighed as he stared at the boy lying at his feet.

“Yeah. A lot of things are too small lately,” he muttered to himself.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

 

A MAGA purist speaks out

They come to Indiana, but who cares

other than all the faux MAGA red hats,

who care more about Israel’s affairs

than rooting out the traitors and the rats

who rub elbows with the Pedo elite,

hoping for scraps that fall off the table

as they just lay there, purring at their feet

pretending Epstein’s list is some fable!

A political myth meant to disrupt,

to spread chaos amongst the rank and file,

as they pray that their own are not corrupt…

May the Gods damn their eyes, since they shut them

against horrors committed on our youth,

choosing instead to insult and condemn

Americans who are seeking the truth.

Damn their ears, since they will not hear reason,

screaming instead that we are the traitors,

as though demanding justice is treason

and that we are merely trouble makers

who fell for some propaganda and lies

and they insult us, and they laugh and sneer

and do their very best to ostracize

MAGA purists and silence us through fear.

Damn their forked tongues, as they spin their tall tales

trying to pull the wool over our eyes,

even though we see clearly through those veils,

pitying them as they buy their own lies.

Damn their hearts, which have already turned cold,

frozen by the temptation of power:

for the sake of office, they’ll do as told

and stand by as the elite devour

the pure innocence of child after child

for their own evil rites and dark pleasure.

Truly, we can no more be reconciled

by any plan or desperate measure.

When did saving the kids take a back seat

to running protection for the elite,

to laying worshipfully at the feet

of those who wantonly peddle deceit,

demanding to open our mouths to eat,

the absolute bullshit their own mouths excrete?

I don’t care what they say, I want that list,

the one they themselves were demanding

and yet now are claiming doesn’t exist.

Others may sit, I will remain standing.

As a father, I cannot just sit by

and allow this crime to fade day by day,

and so I will continue to decry,

their attempts to make it all go away.

This betrayal will not be forgotten,

and though there are many who may doubt it:

all the fruit on the tree that is rotten,

those who covered it up or allowed it

will one day be revealed for what they are,

and with their darkness brought into the light

so then in a blink, fall like a star…

True Americans will cheer in delight,

with passionate joy that is unreserved

when Justice is honored, and Vengeance served.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Trust

Trust

Like an ice-cream cone, 
neglected in a child's hand,
It all melts away...

Happy?

Birds sing in the trees
all happily unaware
without consciousness

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Disappointing

 Disappointing

A punch to the gut:
the job will disrupt far more
than it stands to fix.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Clean Fun

 Betsy left the office crying. Everything that could have gone wrong in that interview did go wrong, and it was the first time an interviewer had told her during the interview that they would be going with other candidates. 

As she walked through the lobby, just before the escalators, she saw a janitor struggling to move a step large ladder by himself. She paused, and tears still in her eyes, picked up one side of the step ladder and waited for him to take it in the direction he needed to take it. 

The man looked at her for a moment, and then moved the ladder over to just under a light fixture that was slowly blinking its light.

After setting the ladder in place, he turned to her. 

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he said. “But why would you help me?”

“Well,” Betsy shrugged. “I dunno. I was always told to treat the janitor the same as you would a CEO, and you just looked like you needed some help.”

“You believe that, do you?” He asked.

“Yes,” Betsy replied. She gave him a small smile. “Besides, I am having a bad day, so I may as well help someone else before they have a bad day.”

“What is your name?” 

“Betsy.”

“Well, Betsy, I’m Joe,” he said. “As it happens, I am the CEO of this company. I have done this test on every single applicant that has come through today, and you are the only one who stopped to help me!”

“Really?” She sniffled, and wiped at her eyes.

Joe gave her a warm smile and patted her shoulder. 

“Really,” he said softly. “I know from your tears that you think you didn’t do so well, but I make the final call on all hires. I need more people like you on my team. I want you here tomorrow when these doors open at six AM to start the first day of your new career! Can you do that?”

Betsy beamed at him, and grabbed at his hand.

“Yes! Yes!” She enthusiastically shook his whole arm. “I will be here! Thank you, sir!”

Joe watched as she walked quickly over to the escalator and went down, before she reached the bottom, she turned to wave at him. 

She raised her cellphone to her ear, he could just barely hear her voice. “I got it! You will never believe…”

“Why do you keep doing that?”

Joe turned to see Dayle standing there with more light bulbs. He grinned. 

“That makes three this quarter,” Joe said. 

“The last guy almost got wasted by Security when he kept demanding to see the CEO who hired him for watering a plant.”

“First off, it was the plastic ferns over by the elevators, Dayle," Joe said. "Besides, doesn’t it piss you off that they act like we are some sort of untouchables who deserve public displays of compassion to make themselves feel better?”

“I don’t think about it,” Dayle said as he climbed the ladder. “I try to just do my job and go home.”

“Well, it pisses me off,” Joe said. “Besides, she touched my ladder.”

“Well, I am off tomorrow, so if there is another scene like last time, try to catch it on video for me and let me know what happens.”

Joe chuckled and was about to reply when he felt a tap on the shoulder. 

Joe looked at his shoulder before turning to see a man in a suit looking up at Dayle opening the light fixture. 

“You need any help with that?”

Joe smiled. “What is your name?” 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Denial's Due

 Denial's Due

What powerlessness in a failing grasp!
Unable to hold for a simple task,
without flittering away, distracted!
Day to day life becoming impacted,
altering the most basic lifestyle,
Yet, loved ones close their eyes in denial:
It's just been a rough day, or a rough week,
It’s just exhaustion that hides what you seek,
Those words, and memories, faces and names,
They hide deep in the shadows all the same,
Showing themselves with the tiniest slips,
But not enough for the tongue or the lips…
And it just gets worse in denial’s wait,
Until it’s acknowledged… often too late. 

Writer's Morning

A cup of coffee
on the table by my notes,
helping me along.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Three Percent

 Three Percent 

There was a small amount of pressure before the tooth gave, and his jaw felt like it was on fire. The taste of copper filled his mouth, and he gave an agonizing scream that gave way to coughing as he started choking on his own blood.

The man standing before him stared at him intently, holding the needle nose pliers out to show the tooth that was clasped within its grip.

Beside him, his wife was looking the other way, sobbing around the cloth gag the man had tied to her face.

“This would be a whole lot simpler if you would just tell me where it is,” the man said with a bored tone. “I may even let you go.”

Murphy gathered the blood in his mouth and spit it towards the man. The majority of it fell upon himself and the concrete floor of his own basement, but some splattered across the man’s face.

“I can not promise that my offer to spare you will last,” the man said as he turned to put the pliers on the table behind him. “Tell me where it is, and we can move on.”

The man removed his glasses and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the blood.

Murphy stood as best he could, being tied to his chair, and charged the man. For a brief moment, the man actually showed something other than boredom on his face. His eyebrows went up, and his mouth went to say something that was cut off as the top spire of Murphy’s chair pierced his chest.

As they slammed into the stone wall of the basement, the spire pushed through the man, and hit the wall, putting just enough pressure on the wood to splinter it where the back met the arm. His arm still tied to the arm rest, but now free to move around, Murphy pulled it back across his chest before swinging it down on the throat of the still astonished looking man.

That morning, he had falsely presented himself as a man wanting to buy the Truck that Murphy had listed on marketplace. Hours later, which seemed like an eternity with the torture that he had subjected Murphy and Lanore to, he had admitted that the deed to the house was his goal. He was going to use it to present himself as the new owner, having “bought” it from Murphy and his wife who then would “move on”. No purchase, no contract, just good old-fashioned land theft, and no one would be the wiser without Murphy and his wife to say otherwise.

Now, the man sat with his back against the wall, his own blood pooling from the chair spire still in his chest, and the splinter filled gash on his neck from the armrest, still staring at Murphy in disbelief.

Murphy used his free hand to untie himself from the remnants of his chair, before running to Lanore to free her. Lanore stopped screaming and ventured a peek to see the man dying on the floor.

She leapt to Murphy’s arms, and hugged him, sobbing again. She pulled away and then hit his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you just tell him where the deed was?” She screamed. “He ripped your tooth out! What were you thinking?!”

“Good point,” Murphy said. He looked down at the table and picked up his tooth from the grasp of the pliers. He winced at the sight of it. With a slow sigh, he dropped it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Murphy then shook his head and grabbed one of the knives on the table the man had lain out to intimidate the couple with. He then sat in Lanore’s chair and kept an eye on the man.

“Go upstairs and call 911, and tell ‘em what happened,” Murphy said. “I am going to sit right here until they get here.”

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” She sobbed again. “He was going to kill us!”

“He was going to kill us either way, baby doll,” Murphy replied. “Besides, we bought this land with 3 percent interest. I ain’t going nowhere.”

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Truth

 Truth

Rot grips our nation

And one simple truth prevails:

We. Were. Never. Asked. 

Penny for your thoughts.

 

Penny for your thoughts

“Got another smoke?”

Mickey pulled a pack from his jeans pocket, and after pulling one out for himself, handed it to Derek.

“Too bad your old man is home, I could go for something to drink,” Mickey said.

“Something like his new girlfriend?” Derek asked, around the cigarette in his lips as he flicked at his lighter.

When Mickey didn’t say anything, he added “You know, Tall, cold, and alcoholic.”

Mickey laughed.

They stopped at the light on the corner.

“Which way?”

Derek looked around. “What intersection is this?”

“13^TH and….”

Mickey looked up for a sign, but there was nothing but the stoplight. He looked up and down the intersecting road. It wasn’t as well lit, with only every third streetlamp seeming to be working.

 “I..uh..Dunno.”

“Weird,” Derek muttered. “I don’t remember seeing this one before…”

Mickey hissed at him. “Let’s go left. Someone is walking towards us.”

Derek took a drag and hesitantly nodded. They liked walking around at night, but some folks gave them the heebie-jeebies, and at night it was worse because you just never knew.

They stepped off the corner and started to walk briskly down the new road. About a block down, Mickey looked over his shoulder. The silhouette of a man had turned from 13^th and was now following them. They kept walking at a pace that reminded him of those mall walkers. He was getting ready to suggest that they just book it, when passing under one of the working lights, Derek stopped in his tracks and looked up.  

“Is that fire?”

Mickey squinted up at the light. Sure enough, there was the tell-tale flicker. He looked around. “Holy shit! Look at the road!”

For a moment, they both stared at bricks that made up the road.

“This is weird, man,” Derek said. “Does the air smell…clean?”

“Is it…Is it darker out?”

They looked up at the sky to see the open sky filled with stars usually hidden by the glow of the city. They backed up to get back into the light of the flickering light of the lamp post. They turned to begin to head back towards the intersection, being of the same mind to get out of where every this was, and came face to face with the man who had moments ago made them worried. That worry gone, they tried to go around him.

“Gimme your wallets, jewelry, and phones.” The man demanded, stepping right back in front of them. “Now.”

“Shit,” Derek muttered.

“We’re kids, man. We ain’t got anything in our wallets, and my parents don’t let me have a cell phone!”

“Bull shit! You have to have something!” The man demanded stepping towards Mickey.

“Penny for your thoughts!”

Mickey and Derek looked at each other before looking at the man in front of them. His own face was a mask of confusion as he stared back at them.

“What?”

“Penny for your thoughts?” The voice repeated. It sounded like a little old grandma.

The man with the knife turned his head to look behind him and jumped back in surprise. He stood beside Mickey and Derek as the stooped figure of a little old lady stepped from the shadows. She had a walking stick, horned rimmed glasses, and a puffed up, fluffy, and flowery sun dress on, as if she were the stereotype that all little old ladies were crafted from.

“Don’t be startled dearies!” She said with a smile, revealing her yellow and crooked teeth. “I am just out for a stroll and saw you stopping in front of my home here and thought I would say hello!”

The man and the two boys looked around the old woman to the shadows that she stepped from. None of them could see any house behind her. Mickey sure the hell wasn’t going to say anything about it, so he just stood there, waiting.

“Beat it…” the man with the knife started, before seeing the shimmer of her necklace in the flickering light of the lamp post.

“Give me the Jewel, lady!” He stepped aggressively forward and pulled it right off her neck.

“Mercy me!” She said in a shocked voice that didn’t quite reach her face.

She still stood there as relaxed as when she first walked up.

Mickey thought about running when the old woman reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a penny.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The man laughed, but then squinted at the coin, the woman held.

“No way...” he said. He stepped forward and snatched it from her. “This is a 1943-D Lincoln Bronze Wheat Penny! You crazy old broad! Do you know how valuable this is?!”

He laughed and gave a whoop.

“Yeah, I’ll take your penny for my thoughts. My thought is that you just made me a very rich…”

His words were cut short as she flung her arm out way faster than Mickey and Derek would have assumed to be humanly possible and sunk her hand right into his face. She then yanked it back with a sickening squelch and the man fell at their feet.

Mickey looked down at the man, and back up at the old woman who was just staring at them, holding the dripping brains of the dead man in her hand. Maintaining eye contact, the woman sniffed the brains and took a large bite from it.

They watched her, seemingly paralyzed, before Mickey could will his feet to move. He grabbed Derek and pulled his arm as he took off from where they had turned onto the road. He looked over his shoulder as they ran. The old woman just stared at them as they ran away, finishing her oozing meal, before wiping her hand, and bending down to pick up the penny from the man’s hand.

As they hit the intersection, just before Mickey could decide to go left or right, a man on a bicycle nearly hit them.

“Watch where you’re going damn it!” He yelled.

Mickey stopped and spun around. The intersection was no longer an intersection, but a brick wall that faced a T intersection. He reached out and shakily touched the bricks. Solid, and cold.

“What the..” Derek asked, wheezing and coughing.

As the man on the bike got further away, and his cursing faded out, Mickey could just barely hear the little old woman’s voice.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

They took off running again, their foot falls echoing off of the cold brick walls.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Dear Anonymous Commenter

Dear Anonymous Commenter,

I was pretty excited when I saw the comment notification. I've had my writing website since 2012, and this would be my very first comment.

You know, I have to be honest, I've had a rough couple few months, and to see someone taking the time to say something gave me a momentary elated feeling.

And, in the sake of honesty, I must admit that I took it pretty rough.

If I had just started with my website, and this was the first comment, I doubt it would have landed as quite the blow to the gut that it did.

It took me a moment to gather my wits about me to remember that you are not someone who actually reads poetry, or short stories, or has probably invested yourself in any of my work further than maybe one or two of the Haikus on my page.

As most of my longer stuff was removed for the publishing process, so I doubt you've had the chance to look at those, or would be interested in buying my collection to get a feel for them or my style.

Ultimately, dear commenter, are just a nameless, faceless, and ultimately feckless voice vomiting your nonsense to spread the vile darkness in your own soul to as many other people as possible.

In the end, while it is disappointing that you would be my first comment after all this time, I must thank you for setting the bar so low on the comment section. Perhaps the next comment I get will be a bit higher than yours and won't feel quite as sharp.

So, I'm sorry that my work (that you have access to) is not up to your liking.

However, as a gift for being first commenter, I wrote you a Haiku that you will probably not like either.

A Haiku: "Dear Anonymous Commenter"

I can't take advice

from nameless online shadows.

Hope you understand.