Guest Poetry

It may come as no surprise that my brother writes as well. We have some similarities to our writing, more like broad brush strokes that overlap here and there, but we have our own voices and our own strengths. For example, my brother writes poetry, a medium that has always eluded me. As a general note, he also writes fiction and music. A couple days ago he informed me that the day I emailed him to ask if I could share a few of his poems was the exact day one year ago that he had last edited one of the poems that I had selected. Bizarre coincidence! I think it’s a coincidental sign that it’s time for this blog entry and it gives me great pleasure to spend today’s post sharing a few of his poems. My two cents will be posted below.






Four rust-colored walls are all I need

and the roaches keep me company

The shag carpet, stained with splotches of an unknown,

blood-red substance, is warm and welcoming

after a long day of rocking back and forth in my corner

Static emanates from the television,

I prefer it to the whispers that fill the room,

even though the television is not on

But through the dreary, white noise

that creeps into my ears

and rocks me gently to sleep,

I can still hear the whispers accusing me

“Stranger!” they say




“Silent Nightmare”

The white fog waits

like winter chill

in the dead of night

It’s sad here

and empty

feelings of dread fill my heart

and my head

I see only with my ears

and I hear voices

The sounds of creatures

surreal and cruel


Nails scrape the pavement

as they give chase

where is the exit here?

I crawl along the sidewalk

amidst the fog

to a gaping hole

a bottomless abyss

infinite caverns

silent but screaming

like the dark, hooded figure

that stands behind me

Heart thumping in my chest

so loud I

for a second forget that

I am afraid

until I feel its hand

on my shoulder

I can hear nothing

and it is in this silence

that it speaks to me

my thoughts turn against me

goose bumps turn my skin to scales

and I turn around

its breath is sour,

teeth like rusted nails

A sadistic grin

on a contorted,

humanoid face

and with its fingernails

digs a hole in my chest

and steps inside

laying dormant until tomorrow night




“The City of Fallen Angels”

The red carpet glows in bright white light

Flashes and ego fill the air of the night

Shiny black vessels jam-packed like sardines,

hollow and jaded with nothing in-between

Favorites are played with politics and charade

Fifteen minutes are up, it’s a dead star parade

Prescriptions have price tags, the vain have premieres

Through the masks of their makeup,

hide the truth of their tears

Morphine for a headache, cocaine and coffee

anything to smile for the paparazzi

These over-medicated drones have but one thing to fear:

Burn out, break down, slip away, disappear


All poems by Paul Tremiti




“Home” is currently my favorite poem that my brother has written (and shown me). I love its slow build, its cadence, and its disturbing ending. I take a lot away from it. I will say that I’ve always pictured “Home” as taking place inside someone’s mind. I see it as a symbolic scene  of a person’s mind/subconscious. There is a lot of tension in this place and “the individual”  who currently survives at this home is not alone and he may not be able to survive there forever. The mood in “Silent Nightmare” is great for the Fall season.  For me, the character in the poem has something ugly inside of him that follows him around, no matter how hard he tries to run away from it. Falling into the abyss is the only way out and it is, basically, death. “City of Fallen Angels” adheres to the strictest rhyme scheme and I like the use of the rhyme scheme for such a chaotic scene.

So, that’s my take! My brother is open to any comments or feedback. I’ve asked him specific questions about specific lines and have always been pleased to hear him give a specific answer.


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