http://slow.writerscafe.org/andrewlabarre The original writings of author Tilling en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775981060 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I'm a painter of pictures with words that tell stories,drawn out in a multitude of ways.I shall draw on life,yes, in ways considered tragic,and would be, if defined who I am today.For I've lived on freight trains,ate out of garbage cans,and sold my body in three different states.Now employed, f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2132019/     Mama ran off with a hobo,    said she'd be back in a day.    Been close four month now,    daddy's cooking just don't taste the same.    Daddy I miss my mama: why she have to go?     Son too I miss your mother;     k.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2130494/ Thirty seven years go ageI had used for the first timecompletely a tube of tooth pasteentirely a can of shaving creamevery last check in a book.In order. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2116078/ Rolling through presumably west Texas.Automobileslicense plates acting as pin drops.Coordinating off the sun to get my direction.I'm breaking the code.Letting my presence be known;for typically you don't see mewhile out riding cross states. I'm feeling restless.No smokes and a pinch of bread-my.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2114118/ I used to have a nasty habitdoing things my way.I used to wander aloneL.A. traversing into the heart ofunswept crannies and alleys.Crying I was; searching out corners; searching out the c.i.a.I'd bully them.I'd aim to punish.  I'd spit in their face.At times I wanted to die.I tried as a co.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2112535/ Strewn amongst the urban bramblehis home, a thrown on wheels.Squeaking. Bottles and cans clanking,breaking the silence of the night; announcing  to all-prying deep into the dark crevasses of hopeless depth-Rise! This fight must go on.Signified simply by my life: this breath http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2110415/ Oh, how I learn from the titans.Swinging anvils of wordsround then round;the existence of understanding beat upon until new meaning is forged.Oh, how Im thankful to the Lord.Who labors with tools honed with wisdom;always, clearing access intofields of old reason. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2109667/ Yes, it's true.I've seen the footprints in shapes of sadness, treaded across our souls-from Satan.Disturbances left behindlike the tidal sands willingness to retain a remanence of burdens-thrust down upon it.Yes, then I also I tell you: Gods love is the tide- ever worki.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2109626/ I was under heavy attack,yes, from the enemy within.Dangerous at times though exciting, prayerful in some of my actions,others-I just didn't give a dam.I'd wail and awaken the alleys, street corners, and un savory crowds. Shareing with them the game is over-God now runs this town.Laug.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2105391/ Senryu http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2105306/ Its best to cup your hand while lighting cigarettes in alleys with me;for a homeless man, the wind is foe.Apologies for the inconvenience, but I need you to show me your feet;Im checking for blisters, formingover older blisters. And If I gotta watch how you s**t in a ally, that won't bothe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2105146/ Theres always tells and give aways. Like alwaysinstinctively cupping a cigarette as its lit tells me all kinds of things. First, that person spends a proportionatly large amount of time outside. If a cigarette was not cupped while being lit, that may have then led me to remove individuals shoes to g.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2105145/ There was a time I wore black eyes.I had a mouth ran dry from sport of words spit hard.Garbage cans were always insight.I would protest, always pockets turned inside out,a curious rage for the world,I know would rather not see.I remember my bare feet burned hot on pavement,more protest of my sufferi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2105092/ I'm a painter, of pictures with words that tell stories,drawn out in a multitude of ways.I shall speak on life,  yes, in ways considered tragic,with passion, and joy so abundant, expressed through tears of prayer.I'm going to shed light to lifelived on freight trains http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2105045/ Dear I say,Words, I feel, are rather inadequate attempts to convey the hurt of harmsdone. God how things got ugly. The dis-ordered attachment to the pain inflicted upon you. What kind ofperson fans the flames of rage and loves the twisted outcome found in humiliating another.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2104346/ Pee-pants Pamala,squirting all over herself.Potty training doll. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2104261/ Barkers on Hollywood Boulevard were a ever-present litmus test to where my place was viewed in this world. During a three year period of homelessness, while living on the streets of Hollywood,  I had told myself, explicitly, that I would have “arrived” back into society when the ti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2104170/ I sold my body.Having not showered for months,people would still pay. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2104002/ I was not ready,         unable to love was I.                            All that has now changed.I'm free to love You,God, please teach me countless ways.May my prayers be heard.I see the Beauty,bef.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103937/              ~~~~~~~~Haiku is writtentypically: five, seven, fivesyllables per line.      ~~~~~~~~~   http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103925/ Riding with no hands,                  tires overinflated,carefree as the wind.           ''''''''''''''''Forest fire rages;destruction all around me-A requirement.             '''''''''''''.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103913/ Remember  I was praying barefoot on the boulevard,throwing shoes at passersby, dumping garbage in the street.Crazy, those tricks off Santa Monica, they'd fightwith big, dirty dark hands, pissing in alleys in the dead of night.I was high and disappointing, with Godby my side, crying real tears, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103889/ I used to wear only track gear.Clothes I found discarded along railroad tracks.Clothes preferably discarded for upwards of years.What wasn't folded over upon itself or partially buried in dirt was exposed to the sun.That's what I was after.The sun exposed materiel would have most of its color bleach.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103796/ I've been given great lengths of ropein this life. More than mostknow exist. I was asked to give up my name in exchange for another;a different life.I used to run into pits of viperson corners.They couldn't kill meobviously. They triedcountless times to drown me with bullets, poison or mac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103691/ God would send me sometimesboxcars to ride.I know.I would hop up toclimb inside.At times so coldI would cover upeven with lumber.Thank you so much,I luv u http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103510/ I lived on freight trains,ate out of garbage cans,and sold my body in three different states.I used to run for funwhen I had tothrow tantrums on corners,I'd spit in their face. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103484/ During the dry of winter,opening with simple care,the halls echo quiet as he keys each darkened room door.Things are sure to change in August’s plump summer swelled air growing doors wood grain.Doors are temperamental,like seasonswill to change. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/andrewlabarre/2103353/