"Fallen Angel" Part II (Short Story)

War. Peace. Morpheus. Helios.  

The fallen angel walks as her eyes beams on high to evaluate her surroundings. It’s like an apocalyptic firestorm in her view, as the strangers she passes laughs consistently in an echo effect. The angel does not see the world like the rest. Her judgment of character on others provides the truth. The halos slowly diminish, as the horns grow. 

She’s just fallen for Hades current trickery. The beautiful lady continues to travel until she spots the Sun God, Helios, breaking his rays through the darkened thick walls of clouds in the sky. He directs her to a safe haven on Earth, a garden. The angel collapses from exhaustion underneath a large oak tree and questions herself as she starts to meditate underneath Grandfather Oak and enjoys the comfort of his shade. 


                “How many demons, zombies, lost souls have been put onto this Earth?”


The angel escapes into slumber, as she re-enters her fantasy world and visions another angel leading her down a path of a road filled with lavish coal. In the horizon, she sees Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, waiting under Helios’ rays. 


                “Angel, come to me.”


                “Athena, what has caused such madness?”


                “The life cycle of Mother Earth is imbalanced. It must be nurtured and healed. Teach the world of the forsaken values of the resources offered and relearn the portions of necessities and there you will find what you are searching for.”


The Angel turns and looks at the destruction and smog right before her eyes. The garden fades, Grandfather Oak has died, as the world darkens and starts spinning in a more rapid pace. The angel starts to get tipsy and falls to the splintered and dehydrated ground that once was filled with greens and the bright colors of wild flowers. 


As the angel awakens from her dreams, she is relieved of the events that have not yet happened in her vision. The comfort of the thick grass lifts her heart and head to continue on her journey. Helios’ journeys to the West, but there’s still a warmth and light within the angel. And that’s when she clearly discovers…


…When others’ flames are extinguished, hers will just be more ablaze. When others’ become cold, hers will keep the warmth within’. God gave her this strength for a reason, a sacred reason. She just prays it doesn’t become unbearable where she cannot save one’s soul. Where art thou her guardian to balance the barrier?! She shall remain searching.


(To Be Continued…)

©H.M. Gautsch

Navigating with a Notepad (Poetry)

I’m trying to sit in the dark,

Late at night, staring out at the stars,
While sorting out my thoughts to write another poem.
Yeah, it might sound like the same old song,
But the pen and pad are the only things I can depend on.
It’s hard to have family and friends
Who can’t see or understand any of my social problems.
Some days I’m quietly awkward,
Other days I’m rudely obnoxious.
Maybe I’m a good actor,
Or maybe, I just don’t know how to act.
I am sure people think I am just playin’
To get money from the government,
But if I was doing that,
I’d apply for other assistance,
Along with food stamps.
I don’t want any of that,
I just want to live peacefully before I’m dead.
If I was faking my problems,
I wouldn’t have prolonged my issues from 2009,
Or even longer, like…
…my whole life.
I wouldn’t still be walking that fragile line.
People just rather be blind,
To the facts of my short term memory distortion,
My insomnia, and the voices in my conscience,
That transfers through my body, to my fingers,
To the pen to form these words on this notepad.
In my eyes, I don’t see insecurity with my vulnerability.
If that was the case, I wouldn’t have the courage to share my story.
So what if I am a bit sensitive or even a bit pensive,
My depression and anxiety has always been repetitive,
I’ve accepted these anti-socializing traits,
The best of this world’s artists can relate.
I am sure other kids can to, but too scared to navigate,
And get lost deep inside their heart,
Emotions, and words to collate, in return create this art.
So if you’re afraid, just turn to my unique poetic philosophy, Descartes.

I wish people would stop being concern about how the world looks at me,

I’ll be the executive producer of my decisions and consequence,
Revealing the tattoos and scars that live deep down in my heart.
It’s my skin. It’s my ill mind. It’s my life.
So I’ll keep dishing these poems like my pen is a spoon or fork,
Because it seems it’s the only therapy that truly works.
So if you think I am writing to ask for help,
I’m not. By the time this poem ends, I’ll be my better self.
I just want to thank you for reading and listening,
To my rhymes, my provocative conditioning.
2014 ©H.M. Gautsch

Writing (Poetry)


Yesterday, had another session with my psychologist,
Agreeing my writing inflates my ego and confidence.
I’ll just continue as a populist with the mind of freedom of speech,
Regardless of the consequence,
I’m going to continue my stories as a poet and novelist.
With my writing, I take control, I transform from submissive to dominant.
The other day, I had a heart to heart with my cousins and aunt.
Revealing the support of me exposing the memories that still taunt me,
Continue to rant and flaunt, every now and then, an inspirational speech.
Until I can get all my anger locked up in a vault permanently.
It’s okay to throw me with all the faults.
In return, I’ll keep writing on topics critics don’t want.
Infamous or famous, it’s not the entitlement I am worried about.
My writing is a gift that drains all my heartfelt doubt.
Like a toilet, the shit will need to be cleaned with bleach.
Like a dog with rabies, my words will continue to lash out,
Until my resentment feelings can drain out.
Don’t think I can no longer turn back around from this route.
It’s the only way I know how and I refuse to back down.
I’m switching gears, increasing my speed towards the future,
A healthier self-medication than when I was a smoker and boozer.
Writing has been adopted as my new nurturer.
I could care less who, friend or foe, become my jurors.
I’ll just continue on this creative adventure, looking for my ultimate treasure.
2014©H.M. Gautsch

The Wood TV/Web Series: Episodes 1 & 2

Here’s the two episodes of one of the projects I been working on and off down in Chicago. It’s called The Wood and it brings a story to life about corruption and surviving the streets of Chicago. There are many Chicago-based artists that show their support and appear in this show. P. Rico was spotted in the pilot episode, while Scandalous will appear in Episode #3.

You can find a number of ChiCityInc record label’s entourage spread out in the series, as well as, new coming artists from CCIU, Law Films, and upcoming film production company, C.L.A.W. Details on C.L.A.W.’s launch are coming soon. Until then, enjoy a sneak peak of The Wood starring Shaun Van Prude, Janette Newson, Marcus Davidson, & E-Dot Hamilton.

Sneak Peak Into My Closet (Poetry)


Day to day, I keep questioning myself…
How do I express my feelings without offending you?
I guess you should have thought twice,
Before you put me through what you put me through.
How would you feel if I revealed the truth,
The real roots of my PTSD and the rest of my mental issues?
Still today, I’d rather be back at the front lines of war,
Then be on the home front, being repeatedly reminded of my childhood nightmares.
The noisy citizenry is now wondering where, what, why? Do I dare to even open that door?
The door to my closet, where skeletons lay all over the floor.
Piling up as if I am just a professional hoarder,
My closet is a mess; it’s all out of order with the door half-broken.
I am almost thirty, and I still fear of having children.
The fact I fear the most is being like my parents.
Do I dare explain it on my end?
My emotions have hit rock bottom.
I don’t know any other way to release them without the bottle.
Personally, that’s my problem. Once an angel, now fallen.
I got to try to find a way for my heart to blossom, before it hardens and becomes rotten.
I am almost thirty, and I still fear of permanent commitment.
My father expressed it with his actions, through his heartless abandonment.
I was never taught properly how women should be treated by men.
I mean, where was he when ma found out I was being molested?
So when a good man is found, I just find a way to end it.
I act as if I have a lack of confidence, but really I am just full of my conscience.
People stress to me that I should let my past go,
Easy for you to say considering you never been in my shoes.
Behind closed doors was a whole different show that was played for the views.
Til this day, I still get the abrupt end of verbal abuse.
Til this day, I’m trying to find a way to heal the scars and massage the bruises,
Without necessary making accuses with my distancing excuses.
So the only way I’ll be able to let it go is if I talk about it.
It’s unfortunate that I never got the professional help I needed as a kid.
I guess my writing and my spoken words are a reaction for what should have been.
Before blame is put on me, look in the mirror and think of the things you did.
This poem reveals that my rage and my resentment, is still alive and kicking’
But instead of beating around the bush with the little white lies, I’m only being honest.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Even if it’s written, although I am feeling a bit smitten?
Is it a crime that I’ve given you a sneak peak into my flaw-filled closet?
My pain through a rear-view mirror, just a bunch of ugly roots.
This was just a preview of a chapter that is to be continued….
2014©H.M.Gautsch