To look in the mirror,
The look of horror,
Riddled on your 34 year old face,
Not a look of grace,
But tragedy,
Wondering how can this be

You had time sober,
And in spite of your efforts you became “her”,
The mess you dreaded becoming,
Shaken by that irrefutable truth

Only to realize that the only way out,
Isn’t to cast doubt,
On the light one calls sobriety,
But to grow up,
And drinking from the cup,
That glided chalice called asking for help,
Having faith,
That maybe you truly can’t do this by yourself,

That living with your inner self,
Allowing the words of your rapist to ring true,
You becoming so blue,
Jumping in front of the 7 train,
Rakes heavy on your brain,
Sometimes its actually okay to simply live

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017

The Maggie Mays Prayer

As you approach the bitters end of a long night,
That impervious need to keep on the good fight,
Pounding beers at Maggie Mays,
You eyes slip into that drunken haze,
Giving into the notion you’re truly alone,
And then,
Your minds truly blown,
As you hear that voice of someone you love,
Declaring he’s there to bring you home,
Forlorn look in his eyes,
Wondering why he’s with someone whose bent on suicide on the installment plan

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017

Methodology of a Suicide

You never spontaneously plan to die,
Walking down the street,
Then leaping to your feet,
Where you and the B24 meet

You think long and hard,
Plan the motions,
Hoping to end the pain,
Hoping to gain,

Peace of Mind

Thinking and thinking you know your alone,
And then your minds blown,
All because someone asked how you were,

You smile

Because you now have another reason to keep going,
To live just another day

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017


I wish when I heard the phrase,

“To Thine Own Self Be True”

I listened not to the crowd,
The ones who spoke not in affirmations,
But spoke their opinions,
Only to take what they said to heart,
Dying for their love,
A conditional one,
A battle never won

But listened to that still inner voice,
The one that speaks in my voice that tells me I have a choice,
As I rode the line between bipolar satire,
Whilst I was on fire,
Dying from the pain of living for others,
Forgetting the fact that I had true brothers,
The ones who stood quietly by and wept,
As I kept,
And kept,
And kept on weeping inside wondering if I too can be loved

And the truth,
That beauty of beauties shining with light,
Telling me to hold true to me,
That its okay for me to be,
Truly free,
To walk amongst the valley of the shadows of pain called the world,
With glee,
Knowing that I never had to bend to be loved,
Because if I stayed true to me myself and I,
The butch gay,
Lover of art,
And fine food,
Never had to put on airs,
Because by me being me,
The gay not yet ready to come out,
Can see a man like me,
And know,
And glow,
Knowing that the odd man out like him,
Has a place at the table we call life

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017

Closing: Part II

I left the land of Bill W,
Asking you,
To have faith that I wouldn’t be beholden to gin,
Doomed to a life of repetitive sin,
All because I chose to leave instead of stay,
Remembering that moment as clear as day

After having been in for a while,
My throat fills with bile,
The thought of I,
The prodigal son returning to the land of Bill W,
Becoming the man doomed to wear the scarlett letter,
A modern day Hester Pyrnne,
Not to be welcomed back,
But for info,
A cautionary tale on what happens when you leave the land of Bill W,
Not asking you if your okay or offering help,
But anxiously listening,
That what they have,
Is way more solid,
Never asking if your actually okay

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017