Creating Freedom

Linear sight.

Cornered. Boxed in white.

Right angles imprison. Craving obtuse. Jaded pursuits.

No angle feels right when sight is skewed by a prototype. Nature and Nurture coerce future.

Image outranking what’s envisaged.

Bare walls begin to beckon.

Bleach flushed with minds brush.

Imagination unleashed. Inspiration beseeched.

White box converted. Corner post deserted.

4 walls spring doors. Creativity enlisted, nobs twisted. Box resisted. Liberty insisted.

When blank is the backdrop, there’s more room to paint.


Are we so different?

When beauty holds the wallet, when bloodline is the bank.

When a family tree and pedigree is whom you have to thank.

I wonder what you’re thinking, as you spy my flash of red.

Are you judging my attendance in a world of thoroughbreds?

I’m not here to spread my shabbiness, or infect your scene with flare.

I have no malice in my heart, there’s no envy of your wear.

I’m here because your sidewalk is pot hole free and smooth.

Your taxes pave the  way for a skateboarder to cruise

Headphones in, I cast my grin towards your pristine self.

Your case is one of splendor, where my spirit is top shelf.

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Park Av is your runway. You look me up and down, eyes licked with black. You toss your hair-spray fortified blond locks as your “clickity clacking” heals accelerate.

Are you fearful of catching the plague? Zeka? Freedom? I skateboard by, hair an untamed flash of red.

I smile, you scowl.

Are we so different?

We both suckled, crawled and shat ourselves as diapers hugged our bum. We both screamed out at night for our mothers, you from your Upper East Side designer cradle, me from my coastal village dwelling, 2nd hand crib. We laughed at peekaboo and lost at Uno. We were Tic Tac Toe champions and always chose the dog in Monopoly.

Now, your Chanel handbag is my backpack.Your charity auction is my thrift shop

You know wealth without work. You are part of a scene in which bloodline is the ultimate currency. Central park is your backyard. My childhood home backed onto a small quadrant of grass, mango tree, clothesline and passion fruit vine. You have a driver. I have Uber and a Metro Card.

We are now in our late twenties and play peekaboo with strangers children. We will fall in and out of love, each in our own worlds. We will both get wrinkles, curse the mirror, deny hunger, resent our status. You in your world, me in mine.

You strut in heals, I stroll in Converse.We tread the same pavement, yet we will never walk in each other’s shoes.  I see you scowl in my direction, yet your daggers don’t cut me.  I am not deprived of anything. I smile because the climb is half the fun.

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Is my pen broken or me?

I want to write, yet it’s not there. I stroll, I look, I see, I feel…


I watch musicians ignite toddler’s tapping toes. The cheer of children spreads like a happy plague through the crowd.

Bad moods fall like dominoes.

I sit…


I watch street performers beckoning strangers forward. Dancing on Broadway, a pavement stage.street-performers
As bodies flip and hands clap, I am amidst entertainment, yet I am not entertained. I mimic the crowd, without mirroring their emotion.

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes and my clapping hands don’t find the ears of others.

I sit, pen ready…

Point doesn’t meet page.

Inspirations are everywhere. Two strangers betting a flask of whiskey on a chess match. A basketball team sized protest rhyming grump and dump with Donald Trump. A guitarist picking away at dreams, one lunch break at a time.tumblr_n156oaIdti1rti0t3o1_1280

I sit, pen touching paper.

Ink is not spilled.

My thoughts are stripped of temperament. My sight is stripped of sensation.

Then it happens. A pigeon flies overhead and shits on my shoulder. I laugh. My belly jiggles. My nose snorts.

I write.

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Who’s to Blame?

We are human… Right?

So why the perpetual fight for humanity?

Our reality is insanity in light of insufferable disparity.

A shoeshine for a dime for men who earn thousands. Why are the haggard buffing away refines grime?

See, the middle class become lost somewhere in between poverty and pristine.

We don’t seem to care for the 9-5ivers who feed the homeless and the wealthy.

They donate their money for a cause that deserves applause while raising their hands for the societal laws of “we must climb a corporate ladder.” Eyes wide with ambition for the next rung.poverty 1 by myemptybliss

A ladder cemented in the same pavement that house the homeless.

The same cement that bears bare soles and polished “Clickity Clacking” heels.

So who is to blame for the chasm between insufferable life and insufferable wealth?






Wanders bound to pavement streets

Meals sought from passing feet

Bellies filled by cornered cans

Stranger’s waste meet frenzied hands

Image, Hand By Gilead

Daemons fought with manic verse

Chiming cups, quench vein fed thirst

Cravings crawl in ceaseless itch

Life is lived for needled fix

Strangers pass, neglecting life

Hilt in wound, we twist the knife

Tomorrow feared, as winter creeps

Bodies cold, as darkness reaps

My Mocking Clock

There’s no living without danger, there’s no feat without failure.

A life lived blaming strangers restricts our own saviors.

I once dwelled amongst blame, a pawn in minds game.

It took darkness to see me, as the light to ignite shame.

An idol of others dreams saw hands cuffed and screams muted.

Anticipating my own failure left its occurrence undisputed.

So what stopped my mocking clock?

Was it mere time to learn that I could master the ticks and tocks?


Under the Puerto Rican Sky

Blanketed by breeze, cushioned by peace. A lullaby is sung by the harmony of seas.

Ocean forms melodies. The crescendo sounds as waves clash with cliffs. Rocks echo the oceans songs. Wrath chimes peace in the Puerto Rican seas.Puerto Rican Nightfall

The wind kisses my cheek. A gentle peck, almost as if a gust of breath was all that caressed. It can’t have been just its breath. Warmth is dancing with the hairs on my flesh. A mere exhale has no reach to my extremities. The wind blows my never-ending goodnight kiss.

A nightlight in the moon. It plays hide and seek with the clouds. “Peekaboo” the nightly game.   Oceans glisten with the moon’s sheen as islands protrude in silhouette.

My slumber beckons. The Puerto Rican night is my bedroom. I will rise with the sun’s silent alarm. Day will break with the waves.


2015-11-29 16.12.46Puerto Rican Seas

Moon’s nightlight my comforter

Goodnight kiss by Breeze

Financing Dreams

The pour is mixed with melody as the tender’s tapping toes

She imprints the drink with flavors from her destined sold out shows

See.. the girl behind the bar, serves in pointed form precision

Your sip is nipped with dreams, this is just their intermission

The waiters never waiting to be plucked by chance to dance

She’s on the clock that never stops, as dreams demand finance


A dream is in every coffee sipped, every nip poured, every song sung. New York’s service industry finances visionaries. Patrons are the audience to a life’s spectacle. A gracious crowd keeps dreams alive.



The First Bout in the Ring


Last year I was writing. Last month I was writing. Today I am posting. Life at the moment fits like a glove. A glove that isn’t used to protect extremities, but one laced firm for the fight. This is the first bout. Contact will be found through syllables, melodies and blows aimed for a knock out punch against societal injustice.My feet will dance in the ring to entertain you while we embark on this journey together.

I believe an  introduction is in order, as you will, if engrossed in my mind, be privy to both my dreams and awakened hours. My name is Renae, yet being from Australia, my birth name became blasphemed through our debaucherous cultural need to shorten any word with more than one syllable. I now respond to tone and monosyllabic exclamations and approximations, such as Oi, Yo, Nae, You, Riz, Ron, Ren, Red. It is only when overseas, that my full name becomes my calling card. Having lived in New York for just over a year now, I am beginning to miss the crude colloquialisms that are an Australians attempt at the English language.

I have been pondering  the question, who are you,  to me? Along this journey you will become my confidant when feeling like New York has put me in a chokehold. You will be my sounding board when the wrath of the seasons force me to bare more than just the attire befitting the weather. You will be the first I preach to when my wanders become wondrous. You will not have to queue for the diversity that is the Streets, Avenues, metro lines, boroughs and people who make New York my first true love. This city has surpassed my small coastal hometown and become my hearts home. Allow me to share New Yor20141227_153340_resizedk’s ability to foster soul-searching, and then produce those glorious answers that could only ever be found in this playground. In one year I have remodeled my life outlook. I came over here a qualified Pediatric Occupational Therapist. Today I am still a qualified Pediatric Occupational Therapist yet you will only see that title in the Current Credentials portions on my formal Resume. If you were to ask me what I do. I would simply tell you this…

I see the world through the eyes of the improvised. I hear the world through the ears of those who can’t find the words to let the world hear them. I listen not to the sound of news readers or read from the texts of news feeds. I listen to those who rarely get asked the questions. I look at those who rarely receive eyes that are not piercing with cynicism and judgment.

I write what I see in the form my mind and heart think necessary. Writing is powerful, entertaining, enlightening, and beautiful. I harness the power of words and hope that they reach the minds of a world that wants to change.

Every day beauty engulfs us and we should enjoy it. Joy excites us and we should let it be exciting. Happiness is happening and we should harness it. If I succumb to the beauty of a moment I will capture it in my words. If that moment is love, you will feel it. If that moment is vanity, you will see it. If that moment is lust, my art will embody it.

My favored method of writing is poems, lyrics and melodies, which aim to entertain, enthrall and captivate the mind while simultaneously caressing the heart.

 Some days I’m Like…..

That torn dollar bill, it’s feeding rejected when vending

The outcast on media, as fifty shades is trending

I’m that leaf in the wind, that then resides gutter bound

That straw that broke the camels back, buckling to the ground

Others days it’s more like…

That dollar bill was fed, for a greater cause

Those worthy sought the outcast and found hands for an applause

The leafs downward journey was not without its measure

The second hump remained in tact as the camel drank its pleasure

and then I’m like…

The star that never shines brightest, yet is key in constellations

When awards are won, my names not sung but speech’s preach appreciations

I stand in line and pass the time surveying the halted hooves

Tapping toes, impatient blows, create my line bound blues

Thank you for your eyes. I hope my words make their way to your mind and then fall gracefully to your hearts.