Poetry and Prose

Brave New World

It’s a brave new world,
But it feels so cold.
Too many wasted years
Cowered in irrational fears
Afraid to let myself leap.
Cowardice, thy name was me.

It’s a brave new world,
But it feels so old.
Too many tasted tears
Bottomed in bottles of beer.
Stumbling with drunken feet,
Alcohol, thy vessel was me.

It’s a brave new world,
But I don’t feel bold.
Too many painted cheers
Faced in makeup smears.
Hiding behind masks you see,
Vanity, thy curse was me.

It’s a brave new world,
At least, so I’m told.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose


I said the truth, “I like you today,
But I don’t know what tomorrow will change.
I can barely trust my own mind
To stay consistent through the passage of time.
Once the mania has retired,
And production of dopamine has expired,
What am I going to feel in the end?
Am I supposed to fall all over again,
Waiting for endorphins like an addict?
Lost in serotonin dreams hoping to snap out of it?
Oxytocin pumping around my blood
Coursing through my heart in a flood?
With this secretion in my brain,
There’s a thin line separating loving and insane.
No doubt, there’s chemistry,
But I don’t think it’s between you and me.”

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Feel Free

If you wanna converse, feel free.
We’ll dance a dance of poetry.
My mind it’s free;
Far from my body, but still me.
An elated soul in need of grounding.
Forever seduced by the sounding
Sirens that call sailors from sea.
But we’re human, you and me;
Seeking connection and peace.
Fooling ourselves, saying, “It’s easy.”
We’re moments in time moving freely,
But can’t express our feelings.
Instead our hearts continue beating.
From inside out, worn on sleeves;
Screaming to the world, “Look at me.”
You wanna converse?
Feel free.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Survival Damage

“What’s this,” you ask?
That, that’s just an abrasion.
See, I fell over my heels and scraped my chin.
Don’t worry, it’s nothing to lament.
Lol. I’ll be fine.

“What’s that?”
This, this is just a minor laceration.
Nevermind my guts spilling to the pavement,
That’s not what I really meant.
Lol. I’ll be fine.

“That one?”
Oh, that bloody mess,
My pesky heart must’ve slipped out my chest
And down to my sleeve; I’ll put it to rest.
Lol. I’ll be fine.

“And this?”
It’s nothing but a slight concussion.
My mind is running around stumbling again,
Knocking down things as it spins.
Lol. I’ll be fine.

What’s that you say?
No, this is just a little survival damage
Some injuries from trying to live.
Lol. I’ll be okay.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Dirty Abused Masochist

I’m dirty.
Filthy and unclean,
Pristinely obscene.
Coming out of a porn star’s wet dream,
Face smudged and going full steam.

I’m abused.
Beaten and used,
Lustfully bruised.
Played with like a toy
For the sick amusement and joy
Of a man who had a thing for little boys.

I’m a masochist.
Cuts on flesh,
Ecstatic breaths.
With drug filled veins,
Ravages of a chemical fueled teen
Happily touching razors to wrist.

But I’m long past harm.
Forget about the scars on my arms,
Focus on the ones in my mind,
The scabbed and festering kind.

I was wired insane like this,
To mix pain with pleasurable bliss.
I’m wearing a pretty mask like this,
Hiding the hideousness of this mess.
I was made to feel like this,
A dirty abused masochist.
I’ve lived most of my life like this,
We can’t all be innocent.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

She Sleeps

The city, she sleeps in the glow of incandescent light.
Her once moonlit view of hillsides and landscapes
Now encased within limits of steel towers and glass.
And as poisonous neon spreads and devours the stars,
She sleeps.

The city, she sleeps in the beds of her lovers,
The investment bankers, CEOs and politicians.
Her blanket quilted from bonds and bills,
Sewn together with threads of gold.
And on the pillows of broken dreams,
She sleeps.

The city, she sleeps whilst her tenants weep.
The pimps and whores seduce the lonely
As murderers and rapists pervert her hallways.
And while there’s no rest for the wicked,
She sleeps.

The city, she sleeps with dreams of democracy.
Give her your hungry, your tired, and your poor,
Huddle them in masses just outside her door.
As they cry out, “We the people, for the people, by the people,”
The city, she sleeps.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

The Heart and Brain Series


My heart has gone rogue, secretly plotting schemes unknown. Taking over brain like hostage, an emotional blade against its throat. Metaphorical knife pressed tightly, demanding it relinquish control. “Mutiny,” my brain screams, “you’ll never take me. I’ll stand until there’s nothing left.” Heart bellows a laugh, “you fool, I already have.”

Rioting Heart

“Riot,” my heart says.
Brain stands ready, geared up,
Tear gas cannisters waiting to blow.

“Riot,” my heart yells.
Past the point of peaceful
Anarchy behind this barricade chest.

“Riot,” my heart screams.
Bloody face and broken bones,
Victim of vicious vascular violence.

Rioting heart falls.
Logical brain subdues the soul,
A return to tyranny in the form of control.

“Riot,” my heart says.

Lock and Key

Visiting hours are over,
It’s time to go home now;
Heart can’t see you anymore today.
Back to its cell, lock and key,
Brain says heart must sleep.
Come again when it gets released.

-D.A. Baker