I have always been a writer; to myself.

Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.

I was mad, even depressed.

I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.

You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?

I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.

It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.

I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.

I write hoping that one day


it could reach someone in need.

Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.

I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown

and changed

and moved on

from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.

I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.

I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.


Jeremy and the Cockroach

Jeremy focused on the bloated carcass of a cockroach resting serenely in the grass near the headstone of someone he’d never known.

The name on the stone read “William J. Wilson,” and he’d been born in 1912, died 78 years later.

This was irrelevant to Jeremy, who was fixated on the roach carcass in the grass. It’s glistening black bulk was swarmed by numberless ants, small enough themselves that roach they feasted on probably seemed a behemoth.

It was a piercing, clear afternoon. The sky, a cold blue with pure white clouds scattered like sailing ships. This was also irrelevant to Jeremy. He’d ingested six hits of acid roughly four hours ago, and he’d already had his fill of the sky. Now, he wanted to examine the roach.

The way the ants moved about lent the impression that they were springing forth from the very bowels of the dead thing, and then marching back within. Emerging and then returning, emerging and then returning. And how fluidly they went about this! Emerging and then returning. The perpetual movements of birth and death.

Jeremy entertained himself with the thought of this hungry swarm of ants gestating in the belly of this massive cockroach, gnawing their way through its innards and bursting forth in brilliant procession. Devouring the flesh of their surrogate mother and when sufficiently gorged, returning to her rotten womb to drift satisfied into their eternal slumber. Their decaying particles would nourish a new brood of ants, and the cycle would repeat.

Jeremy smiled.

“How wonderful life is!”

-r. miller


She steps into the garden. The night air is warm and succulent. It draws her in, enfolds her, consumes her bit by bit. She inhales deeply, contemplatively, savoring its sweetness. She feels its warmth caress her lungs. A liquid moon is embedded deep in the sky and pours creamy light over the little garden, drenching the flowers in a luxurious luster. She breathes out. The warmth leaves her, but its memory lingers in the corners of her body. She tells herself that she won’t ever let go of these precious reminders. That she’ll keep them close, cherish them, nurture them. Resolute, she stares into the azure distances before her, feels their cold eyes upon her, and in her heart, she hears the bitter herald of the coming winter.

-r. miller


A reading of the following poem can be found at the following link: https://youtu.be/VueA9Dx49bM

I was told there is an Australian dream,
acquired in the classroom, but all I witness
are the twisted cadavers of scarred nightmares,
reflected in the irises of all who have been ostracized
for being exactly who they are.

First class education, running water,
electricity, the internet – these are not the definitions
of the beautiful, multi-cultural society we reside within.
Neither still is calling the young Iranian child
a terrorist; dubbing the Japanese exchange student
a slanty eyed Chink; labeling the young man,
who loves another, a disgusting faggot.

When I was in school, I was called a ‘cunt’
more often than I was called my name,
and the insults never stop for the future generations
I confront today. Our own Prime Minister
proclaimed, that those with mental illness
are a danger to society, the fear recited by the media
fueling the hatred encountered in school,
until being different is no longer a luxury:
it is a crime deemed punishable
with alienation and betrayal.

To this day, I spend my life the same way
I spend my lunchbreak – alone, yet hopeful
the young lady I have feelings for
might still notice me – but in the class,
there is no hope in the eyes of those
traumatized each day. What help
can a single man bestow upon a student
pondering self-harm, when those responsible
for the slander, the lies, and the assaults,
are allowed free reign to frequently commit atrocities,
without even the threat of suspension?

But because these few students may go on
to become our doctors, lawyers, soldiers,
scientists, politicians and teachers,
why should we care if they are in fact
broken inside? Their scars are well concealed
beneath the mask they so happily remove
after a six hour day that felt more like a lifetime,
and their tears stream forth for hours on end,
before they are forced to endure it all again.
They smile, and they wave, pretending
their lives are complete, when all they wish
is to be loved by another.

When a single sentence of kindness
is worth more than all the dollars of a bank vault,
those willing to speak such lines
of genuine, heartfelt dialogue,
truly are the richest in the world,
but they so often find themselves silenced
by those, who would rather taunt another human
to the point of suicide. Every drop
of adolescent blood is a travesty,
but we don’t speak of it. Education is mandatory,
even if it kills you – the problem is,
sometimes it really can.

Words Of A Writer’s Block Survivor

I should listen to them
All the barking
To get minimum wage
And work towards a life
A simple life
To be like everyone else
Defining normal through others
We can’t go there
The understanding is too real
The lyrics–too loud
Competing for something different
Something true
We live for the passion
And fear of what nature brings
In the hands of the ocean
I lie in your fear
On land–I strive for truth
And meaning to these words
These words are my drive
My hunt for the greatest
The biggest kill
Before I die I will reach it
That last line I will write
It seems to never end today
These words so fragile
Feeling they could change something
Somewhere in time
An opposite being–perhaps
Other days it seems to stop
Like it will finally shut down–end
Like I have reached the last line
My fragile broken mind
That last ounce of soul I had left
The life I was meant to share
Then we drive on again
Listening to others cry
The words sinking in
About relations
And experiences we too have–suffered
As the road takes us–nowhere
In hopes to reach you
I write these words
Of purpose to some-one-thing where
Nonsense to others
These words will bring us home
And kill us when it’s time