Child of the Night 

I’m a child of the night 

Pusher of dreams 

Mover of melodies or maladies 

Calamities and blasphemies 

With Sense of ease and on my knees 

I am a Child of the night 

I cannot please nor satiate 

The thirst in these nights of dirty deeds. 

Throat burning 

Room humming 

Mind running 

Eyes fluttering 

So I give in and do what I need

To keep me sane until I peak 

And the palpitations shake. 
Outside the birds twit 

And I collapse. 

I am the child of the night 

I give in. 

#nocturneineminor #chopin #insomniac #piano #poet #pianist #mistsakesandall 

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The Visit 


We were face to face like you never left me

Talking the way we do 

Me and you,

Coffee, cigarettes, and night. 

You say, “since things are going to shit anyway why not go somewhere dangerous.”

And in a blink we were lying on the ground in some grimy hostel in Guatemala with gangsters handling business and me and you in the center of a cloud of dense smoke floating. 

But I stared into your eyes and it felt real and I was happy and we were fine, the two of us, like you never left me. 

I knew you were gone and somehow you paused the earth’s rotation to pluck me from my bed beside my man to some other chaos, yet it felt so normal. 

And there was a crack. It was time to go. 

I told you I was waiting on a new opportunity and Could be going to India. You had a plane to catch. 

I couldn’t go with you and saw you walk down a corridor to your flight to somewhere while I made my way to El Salvador, as dreams go….

And I woke up before the plane took off

And I was happy to see you again. 

The earth sighed and I heard a tick,

Time to grind 

Gonna keep pushing forward. 

Gonna keep walking the groove till I meet you in that place with eyes wide open so when you see me next we will be flying through the clouds and we will be like you never left me. 
Thanks for visiting Debbie!

The Storyteller

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 I believe every great writer must have had a great storyteller. 
                                          Hannah Jurado 

I’ve kept a journal since I could remember. I write constantly with either pen, paper, or thoughts. Thoughts that play like movies with sentiment and laughter streaming sometimes slowly… (Pause) 

Sometimes quickly. 

I even built a code system of numbers to write so that no one could understand. It got to be too hard to read, but also to understand. 

Then I began writing fiction and 

Somethings are even too sacred for myself to record but to God telepathically share with him, and whoever catches the vibe sync and slide together like the very real thrill of speeding through a turn, drop, loop. 
My dad tells stories with so much grandeur that it makes everyone around him understand magic. Every story is amazing because of the way he views it. We are in control of who we are but he does it well. 
When we know, feel, see, experience, love, and are something beautiful than we could spread it so that everyone feels comfortable sharing theirs. The two of us just jammed in between a fit of writing and running to check on the babies. This is all very amazing and real. My hand gently resting on the baby’s knee so he would sign back to deep sleep actually writing a poem about my chipped red nail

Polish and thinking I need lotion. 

My other hand on my older son and gasping a beat at how real their flesh feels against mine. 

Descartes, “I think therefore I am.” 

Earlier today Clary held tightly to my head as we walked through a dark parking lot and I wishing he would squeeze tighter because of how his solid body is proof he is real. 

Socrates was an amazing storyteller and Plato was the writer. If we didn’t have electronic devices maybe we would have more companions and to think how lonely the future might be….