I am a pushover
I let people call themselves my friends
Give clowns and vagabonds permission to insult me
stomp on my pride and other obnoxious things.
Then I sleep with them
feed them meals I can’t afford
call them when I’m lonely
lend them money I don’t have
and tuck them in at night.
If only I had a backbone
that elusive thing called courage
I’d be honest and brash
lock my heart’s door
and say there’s nobody home, never
Instead I let these bullies linger
ravaging my soul
and taking everything I own.


For more on Bullies from a different perspective read my short story, The Bully from Page and Spine Magazine.

Freelance writer, poet, yogi and photographer from Santa Barbara, California. I write and take pictures about a variety of topics, from my early childhood in Philadelphia, to my years as a family therapist, and finally to my soul-searching years in California. The things that move me may have a humorous or serious content or both. Either way, I hope my poetry, pictures and stories resonate with you.

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