Punxsutawney, PA!

Haven’t updated this sucker in months! Well, everyone, I went back on the road.

This time, to a famous Borough, called Punxsutawney located in Pennsylvania. Famous for what? You might ask.

Famous for Groundhog Day, of course. Let’s start with a little backstory on Punxsutawney.

Punxsutawney. What a peculiar name, right? How the hell do you even pronounce it? Here’s how (Click dat ->): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDz8LXVnDKY

I spent a good while trying to pronounce it correctly. My Gypsy Mother insisted on mispronouncing it, although I corrected her consistently. Punxsutawney was home originally to the Lenape (Delaware Indians) and the name “Punxsutawney” stems from a Native name in Unami – it translates to “town of the sandflies” or “town of the mosquitos”. Our main goal in this sweet, small adventure, was to see the famous Punxsutawney Phil.


Healthy Looking Groundhog

Every February 2nd, Phil’s job is to predict the weather. If Phil sees his shadow and returns to his hole, he’s predicted six more weeks of winter. If not, he’s predicted an early spring. With the help of the infamous 1993 movie, “Groundhog Day” starring Bill Murray (love that guy) and Andie Macdowell, Phil has become quite the celebrity.

A special group, called the Inner Circle (I like to call them “the Cult of Phil”) takes care of Phil all year-round and they plan annual ceremonies.


Inner Circle

Our main goal was to see Phil. You may be thinking, “He’s just a groundhog!” I know. I’m well aware of that. But, he’s Phil! And it would have been too damn cold to visit Gobbler’s Knob in February just to get a prediction. It was about a 5-hour drive from Reading, PA to Du Bois, PA – a nice smooth ride. Instead of staying in Punxsutawney, we decided to stay about 45 minutes from the borough. Du Bois was nothing to holler about, but it was manageable. We stayed in a Best Western – a peculiar Best Western.

It was about a 5-hour drive from Reading, PA to Du Bois, PA – a nice smooth ride. Instead of staying in Punxsutawney, we decided to stay about 45 minutes from the borough. Du Bois was nothing to holler about (except for a hole in the wall cinema, in which I’ll get to that), but it was manageable. We stayed in a Best Western – a peculiar Best Western.

Peculiar (to me) because I had never seen a playground in a hotel.


We stayed on the first floor and the hallways were awkwardly long and narrow. It had the tendency to place one in a creepy world that didn’t exist or… did it? The laundry room was a few steps away and the beds were extremely comfortable. Syfy channel has definitely upgraded and the bathroom was well cleaned.

We arrived in the evening time and decided to ditch staying in the hotel and venture to Punxsutawney. It was about a 50-minute drive and along the road, there had been roadkill galore. The restaurant we intended on going to had been closed so we took a detour at a restaurant called, “The Burrow”. Didn’t turn out well so we took yet another detour to Wendy’s, and I regret eating those fries — super salty.

The next day smoothed in and I didn’t really want to get out of the bed.

It was way too comfortable. The Gypsy Woman insisted on taking full advantage of the hotel gym — I complied. It was enjoyable. My little feet and short legs never ran on a treadmill and I was quite satisfied with my experience.


Working Out.

After a nice workout, we hit the town and I found that it wasn’t as lively as I expected.

It was super… super… quiet.

We attempted to find all 32 of The Fantastic Phils of Punxatawney statue. We drove and stopped, ran and snapped, drove and stopped, ran and snapped for almost a whole day. Twas’ a great workout. The Gypsy Woman was more concerned about her photos with Phil. I just wanted a good two or three.

Gobbler’s Knob, which is where they hold the big event every year, had such a beautiful scenery.



Gobbler’s Knob wasn’t as big as I imagined but I’m sure the land was a lot longer than my eyes could see. After a cute 11-15 minute ride, we decided to go to Phil’s Burrow – his little home. On our way there, we found a few other Phil’s and only two tourists like ourselves.

Behind that Phil is the real Phil!
Found across the street from Phil’s Crib
I found this pretty rad.

Most of my time in Punxatawney, I spent eating. A lot. Yes, I gained weight. Wasn’t much to do out there but eat anyway and enjoy the scenery.  We drove around a lot, in which I enjoy tremendously.

Olive Garden, Ruby Tuesdays, and Cracker Barrell were all terrific.

Overall, I give this trip a 6/10 just because I was where the trees were.

And the food.


The Merchant House Museum, NYC!

“Should I take the L train to 3rd avenue and just walk the rest of the way, or take the L train and transfer to the 6 train and walk only 4 minutes. Do I need exercise? Hmm…” I debated with myself.

The L train was a smooth and moderately filled ride. And the 6 train came as soon as I reached the platform. Today was finally the day I set aside my back pains and whatever else held me from venturing to this historic home.

It took me about six minutes to reach the house and if you didn’t pay attention to your surroundings, you’d definitely miss it. Incognito yet blatant in its seniority, the Merchant’s House greeted me with a “hello, come in”. Climbing up the steep steps, I found the bell and pressed once.

Upon entering the house, a silhouette of a very petite figured woman stood down the hall.

“Hello! Welcome!” Said a faceless, friendly woman. The rugs were a maroon color and I started my way down the hall towards her. Growing closer, I found that she was an older woman who seemed to have been working there for years.

She shifted her glasses and said, “Yes, come in from the cold. It’s freezing outside!”

“Yes, it’s pretty cold out.” I couldn’t help but smile at her – her gentle elderly voice and calm demeanor rubbed off on me.

“Are you a student?” She asked.

“Not yet, but I will be in the Fall. I own a travel blog that needs updating.” I fumbled in my bag and pulled out the $15 for admission.

“Oh, that’s nice. Thank you for choosing to come visit. Is it just you?”

“Yes, just me.” I grinned. We had a short chat, she filled me in with the house and where the tour began. A book was placed in my possession; it detailed the information about the house’s layout as well a ton of facts about the Tredwell Family.

20170213_142158Post Cards.

Donation Birdy House.

I was directed to hang up my coat downstairs where the tour started. While walking down the steps, I felt a significant churning, like I was melting into another time.

Found at the coat hanging section.

The silence settled me and I focused in on immersing myself in the home that had been built in 1832. A short version of the history behind the Merchant’s House goes a little like this: Seabury Tredwell was a wealthy merchant who decided that 29 E 4th Street would be a swell place to reside and raise a family. He bought the house for $18,000 from Joseph Brewster (the builder). There lived him, his wife and his 8 children, along with his ever changing servants who were Irish immigrants. He resided in that home until his death which occurred in 1865. Not only is it known for its past history of the Tredwell family, it’s also known for its haunted reputation. Gertrude, the youngest of the Tredwell family, never married and lived her entire life in that home until she died at the age of 93 in 1933. Many folks believe that she is protecting her family home.

The self-guided tour began in the kitchen downstairs. Somehow I felt like a woman from that era would zoom past in front of me and begin baking. Everything looked as if it was in its right place.

A bucket of coals that the servants would carry. Nearly broke my damn arm.



The next room I entered was a sort of study and the style resembled the living room upstairs.


Antique Teacups owned by the Tredwells.


And at that moment, from the corner of my eye, I caught half of a tall woman gliding across the opened door. I was not startled — I was impressed.

“I see you.” I stated loud enough for Gertrude to hear but with respect the silence of her home. I stepped out of the study with hopes I’d see her, but no luck – as usual. In the hallway, I found a few more interesting chronicles of history.

Drawing of Union Square in 1850. Thought that was pretty cool.

Cobble Stone.

Servant’s Bell.

Help support the Merchant’s House Museum. (I donated a dollar and you can too!)

I took myself back upstairs to the first floor. It was delightful to hear the classical piano music playing, it flavored the experience.

First-floor Hallway.

Chandelier in rear parlor.

Rear parlor.

Front parlor. (Wish I took a better photo.)

Seabury Tredwell.

The famous piano that Gertrude still plays in spirit.

I tried to capture the tranquil moment in my mind — took mental pictures. The house has a way of bringing the gentleness out of you. Each step I took upstairs, the creaking that the steps made, cause me to feel as though I’d ruin the historic house. So, I took sweet steps.

Honestly, the mannequin scared the hell out of me.


The bed that Gertrude died on.

I lingered there for a bit and took the next flight of steps. The third floor was strictly for staff, so visitors had to keep trekking up until the 4th floor. The 4 floor was the servant’s quarters. As stated in the booklet as well as the board you see below, the servants were an important asset to wealthy folks like the Tredwells.

Ad seeking a female Irish servant.


Servant’s room.

Outside of the room sat two small chairs, and my back pains took me to them. In those quiet moments, I indulged myself on an imaginary account in which I pictured seeing the life that the servant women lived. How they were treated, how they treated each other, the way they looked, and the things they learned — all bubbling my head. My back pains screamed, “okay, okay!” I said to myself and departed downstairs.

Coming downstairs.

Rugs that resemble that of the Frescoes.

It was nice visiting!

Before leaving, I chatted it up with the staff member and questioned more about the livelihood of the Merchant’s House — how much longer until they build the hotel next to it. She replied, “We haven’t heard anything yet. For years actually, nothing.” And I felt the worry brush through her words. The existence of this historic house is on the verge of being completely fucked because of money. The unfortunate reality hit me, many men, women, and children all across the world come to New York City for the culture and the history. New York City would be shifted with the loss of the Merchant’s House. And, unfortunately, the decision to stop building hasn’t been changed — only a matter of time.

If you’d like to help donate to this beautiful museum, visit: http://merchantshouse.org/support/

If you’d also like to get more information regarding the price, hours and directions just visit: http://merchantshouse.org/visit/

To the history buffs, I suggest you visit this gorgeous home. I rate my experience a solid 10/10.

As always, thanks for reading guys!

Would You Kindly…
Follow me on Instagram @kashepherdauthor 
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With Love,

Bravo Farms in Kettleman City, CA!

Now, this is the part of my California journey I completely forgot to mention.

After a long, bitching ride from New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, Louisianna, and Georgia (with Alabama and Mississipi on the trail), the Gypsy Woman and I finally arrived in California. The sun greeted us with bright, beautiful smile after we slept in the car for another short/long night.

That day, I was beside myself for some odd reason – more excited than usual. We took off in our silver/gray car with the road ahead of us and a longing for finally resting our eyes on those lavish trees.

Our bellies rumbled, “Grr… grrr… grrrr!!!” It forced us to listen and we found a Denny’s. In the beginning of our travels, the Gypsy Woman refused to try Denny’s, previously, she was told that Denny’s was a grease feast. But my words convinced her to try it – she did. She loved it. And it was high time we tried the Denny’s in California. The breakfast left our bellies satisfied. While driving out, something caught my eye from across the street. It resembled that of a western town, a place you’d walk in and be transported into another time, another era.

“Ma, let’s go there!” I called while pointing. When I hopped out the car, I expected to see a cowboy pop out from behind a barrel. It was especially lonesome, strangely. A wild, wild west playground covered the outside and I found myself running up and down and around.

20161103_112415_hdr The playground.


I had never seen a wooden barrel in person.



As you can see, that balcony led you to a much bigger destination. I found that Bravo Farms was a giant mall with a smokehouse, ice cream shop, antique shop, and little knick knack shop. Upon entering the second floor, the air conditioner blared and country music with a tang bounced in the background. My eyes gleamed as I scanned the walls that were covered in antiques. I’m talking everything, from old-school record players to roller skates.

I regret not buying those skates.

Smart ass remarks to hang in your kitchen. Only cost $5 (from my bad memory, don’t quote me on that, kay?).


Heard this animatronic game making all sorts of noises. Was tempted to play. 🙂

Antique Mannequin.

Onto the lower floor – I enjoyed just staring at the animatronic head.

I don’t know if you could see it, but Mr. Froggy is frowning.

Waldo’s up there!!!

I didn’t think, “Oh how cute” when I saw this. I thought, “I want to be that pig.”


The little owl!

A very friendly worker assisted me on some wine tasting. Five different wines for $7. I was pretty tipsy upon leaving.

Bravo Farms was very clean and the scent made you want to buy something. So much to look at and admire, and the staff workers were very friendly. I wish I could have stayed longer to try the food.

Overall, I give this place a solid 9/10.

Check out their official website: http://www.bravofarms.com/

As always, thanks for reading guys!

Would You Kindly…
Follow me on Instagram @kashepherdauthor 
Like my Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/KAKickAssTravels/

With Love,

My Visit to The Redwood Forest!

Recently, I went on a vigorous and spiritual adventure with an adventurous and spiritual gypsy woman.

I’m not joking. Seriously, it happened.

The first stop in our damn near two-week trip was Georgia. Now,  I’m not used to long trips, although I loved the thought of traveling until I actually became a traveling woman. I went stir crazy the first half of the trip and I just wasn’t feeling it. Georgia was just another state, but the hotel was pretty comfortable. From Georgia, it was New Orleans, which isn’t worth writing about. And from New Orleans it was Teaxs, which isn’t much to write about either (except we visited a very special individual), but that’s all.

Okay, I got that out of the way. The main point of this post is to explain my experience of how remarkable The Redwood Forest was. Located in Northwestern California, the Redwood Forest is a United States National Park. In total, there are four parks and together, they protect 45% of all coast redwood old-growth forests.

Three words: Giant Fucking Trees.

Whilst driving in the middle of the night, I noticed the extreme shift in the environment. The height of the trees seem to have been towering more and more, the deeper we drove into the night. The branches leaped over the road and the darkness grew darker. And at that point, I knew I fell somewhere far from what I was used to. The town we squatted in was Crecent City which is practically the last town in the vicinity. The nearby towns were Klamath, Trinidad, Mckinleyville, Arcata, and Eureka. Throughout out journey, I grew accustomed to mainstream music (The Weeknd’s “Starboy” is stuck in my head) and going deeper into forest land, the stations shrunk to about two-three. Country, unheard of rap music, and wild-ass Christian services. Very entertaining, might I say.

The hotel we stayed in was Anchor Beach Inn, and it was placed right next to the ocean and the sea lions were making a statement as we checked into the hotel in the wee hours of the morning and evening. I enjoyed how old-school the hotel was, I love antiques and the feeling of being in a different time era. Being able to step out the door and see the ocean was liberating. On our drive to The Trees of Mystery, we caught the gorgeous North Pacific Ocean right out the car window. It was absolutely breathtaking:


A photo doesn’t do the ocean justice. I felt the power of the ocean and grew immense respect for water as well as all of the elements that make up this planet.

The best part of this entire trip was in fact, visiting the Trees of Mystery.


Paul Bunyan & Babe The Blue Ox

I’ve never heard of Paul Bunyan and at one point, I believed he was a real person. Until I googled it and found out he was actually a character who was a giant. So, you can imagine how blown my mind was. Yeah, you can laugh if you like, believe me I did. Along with Paul Bunyan, I discovered interesting things in the gift shop and just before the trail I eyed this statue:

Wood Carving of Yurok Indian

Don’t know much about that statue, but I can tell you that the Yurok Indian Tribe is predominant in Northwestern California. Along with the Yurok Tribe, there’s the Karuk, Hupa amongst many others. I met a man of the Yurok Tribe and was given an understanding of the life on the other side of the country. We’ve decided to keep in touch; it’s not usual that you meet someone from a completely different setup than you, especially if you’re a city gal like myself. I took these cool photos in the gift shop as well:

Bigfoot’s Imprint. (I became a huge Bigfoot enthusiast on this trip, and I plan on going to the Bigfoot Museum.)
Kick-Ass Bigfoot Statue. 
Interesting Geode.

After a dashing time in the gift shop, we made our way to two different trails. This it the first trail on the first day and I captured these cool photos:


From Below.



Now, onto the second day in the Redwood Forest. These photos were taken at the Trees of Mystery Trail! (Don’t want to ruin the experience completely for those of you who intend on venturing out there, so I’m limiting how many photos I post.) Check it out:

(Tree was too giant to take a photo. Seriously.)
This tree fell and other trees began growing on top of it. Crazy, right?


Okay, that’s all the photos I’ll disclose. Trust me, it’s worth the $16.00, and that includes the Sky Trail which was one hell of an experience.

The fudge cakes were amazing (try it!) and the End of Trail Native American Museum was quite the encounter. Tons of artifacts and stories that brought you closer to the culture of the Natives. Went to the Fisherman’s Restaurant – fried, fried, fried. If you like fried foods, GO THERE. If not, just walk across the street to the Subways and call it a day.

Overall, I give the experience a hard 9/10, only because I didn’t stay long enough, unfortunately. I intend on exploring more of the four parks the next time I swing by that beautiful, historical place.

Caught this bad-ass parrot we encountered while leaving California.

He said, “Hello!”

As well as these Elks who were caught just chillin’ in Elk Cabin. Yup, you can rent a cabin and wake up to an Elk in the backyard.

Ass Shot.


For the venturous and wild person, this is a definite go-to.

Thanks for reading! I’m turning this blog into a travel blog, considering that I love going places and I want to share my experiences with others. Spread the word, comment, like and, Kick-Ass! |



A Vision Extended

A vision extended
These two eyes can see clarity, no pretending
No need for opinions
I’m not buying and you don’t need to lend it

When the curtain closes
The show of vivid dreams and aspirations begin
You can clap loud and applaud before, during, or after it

At the end of the night, they crack open to the sun’s beams
And you begin to see everything is as it seems
But you can implant those seeds
Manifest those dreams

I am not perfect
I know what hurting is
But my naive sense of sensibility has saved me from internal death one to many times
And it has led me to a vision extended.

Fuck It, I Was A Cutter.

I was a cutter.

I promised myself I would never admit that especially not on social media. But here I am, writing a blog post.

I wasn’t the kind of cutter that’d do it everyday – I’d think about it everyday. And I still do. I was the kind of cutter that, when emotions are heightened, the ending result would be to exercise it through self mutilation.

Depression has been something I’ve battled for years ever since I was about 9. See, when I was a kid I didn’t notice the world around me because my dolls would keep me busy. But when I did get a look, I’d see everyone and everything was fucked up. Inside my little body, my feelings were out of place – I thought I wasn’t from this planet. Never felt like I belonged anywhere. Though I excelled in school, I wasn’t excelling socially and internally.

Honestly, most of my life is a blur to me. I can’t remember anything really. All I know is, the day that I started was the day I almost got hit by a car. Wasn’t paying attention, and almost got smashed. I was having a horrible day already, and that took the icing on the cake.

Bout 13, I believe.

A few hours after I settled in my home, I blew up. Felt like someone ripped my scalp off and shoved it in my chest. So, I dashed in the bathroom, found a shitty little razor and slashed myself twice. Impulsively.

The blood ran down my arm and kissed the floor, so gently. It was alleviating. Thrilling. Soothing.

It started really hurting me so I patched it up and pretended like it was just a burn or something. My family suspected something was wrong, but obviously I denied it and they let it go.

Periodically, I had the urge to cut. Not because anything was wrong, but because it made everything feel right. To see the blood and pain relate with what was inside that I couldn’t see, only through useless tears that made my face puff up, was satisfying.

Sometime this year, I resulted to cutting. I found the embarrassment more painful then what bothered me. Those scars add an extra weight on my left arm.

I raise my arm and everyone stares. I’m not surprised – I did this to myself.

I’d question why God decided to create me in this image, I’d question why I was incapable of truly connecting with others, I’d question why I have yet another impulse – another trick up my sleeve. Pun intended.

Everyday it’s harder and harder to deny those thoughts. Especially when trouble arises. But, I’ve been starving that shit.

I’m not ashamed or embarrassed or afraid. This makes up a part of my life. Honesty is the best policy and to accept and say that I had/have an issue with self harm is more helpful then denying what’s real. In order to become stronger, one must confront what’s going on.

If you’re battling depression, self-mutilation, anxiety, whatever it is – you’re not alone. And to those of you who judge others for their actions, or you’re just curious as to why and how someone goes about hurting themselves, I suggest you educate yourselves by checking these sites out.

1. http://www.helpguide.org/articles/anxiety/cutting-and-self-harm.htm

2. http://www.selfinjury.com/

3. http://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/self-harm/#.VjXuCdWrTnA

Understand To Love.

  • K.A. Shepherd

Acceptance Of Power

I’m just spatting what’s in the noggin at the moment, or moments.

All I see in the media is romance. You can’t turn on the radio without hearing Taylor Swift’s pop infested voice singing about a dude’s crazed love for her. Or Selena Gomez’s husky tones draping on the words, “I just wanna be good for you” (catchy beat for the contrary.) Or Nicki Minaj’s plastic ass is an inspiration for women to either see a doctor or go to a gym they hate with the impression that with those actions, they’d meet Mr. Right all the while listening to “Feeling Myself”. But it seems as though a society full of love infected zombies are being birthed at such young ages. I’m sure this has been occurring far, far before my time and I’m just pointing out the obvious.

Society has been conditioning the minds of women/men to submit their individuality and their dreams to the crippling fit of a marriage ring.

Nothing is wrong with wanting to be a wife/husband or a mother/father but I find something wrong when you think that’s all you’re supposed to be. There is something wrong when you relinquish your soul to an apron and you stop aspiring to reach new heights on your path. Relationships are a glorious aspect in life that can make, break, shake, and wake you but letting the fusion of another person’s life hinder you from walking at your own beat is something I’m opposed to.

From my personal experience, this current job I have as a babysitter/nanny has expressed to me the importance of having a sense of self and impeccable focus. The hours range, my patience is consistently tested, and my free time depends on if I have time to sleep for an extra hour. Understanding who you are and how you’re feeling about certain situations that hit you, trusting yourself and setting up plans to keep a strong control in your life is what’s important. When you forget thou self, thou self forgets about breathing and when breathing seizes, progress stops. Many say they love themselves but they forget about their well-being in the process of daily life.

My gender, my skin tone, my personality could have been something else from a different planet – but I am who I am. Embracing yourself, not losing yourself in the midst of children, relationships, and work is something that many struggle to balance. Hell, whatever life throws at me I’m sure I’d have trouble balancing. But, it is this realization that we need to pay heed to – never forgetting about who you are and what you stand for.

Because when you hit your head on that pillow at the end of your stressful day, it is you who’ll be with you.

Chase your wildest dreams and never forget to feel yourself all the while being good for yourself.

Observational Nature: NYC R Train to the 2 to the 3

Looking through another glass.

There’s a pair in front of me, blabbering about something they both know little to nothing about. The male finds her attractive but she’s waiting on prince charming – you could tell by the distance she’s sitting from. She has a sort of extra protectiveness about herself that’s shown in how close her knees are pulled into each other and how tight she clings onto her bag. And she’ll never know the potential this guy withholds.

Hold on, Transferring —

One of the worst aspects about the MTA is transferring; reason being that the train you’re rushing for could possibly be running with delays or running on the express track (vice versa). There’s always a nibbling at the back of your neck, hoping the train would be there and praying it doesn’t fail you on that job that you’re fighting to get/keep. Forget the weekends, they look like migraines.

And turn your focus to the only human in this train car diagonal from me. She is of Asian descent and seems to be adept in cooking, as well as many other surprising life hacks. The woman looks like one bad ass chef who knows all sorts of Mediterranean and Vietnamese dishes. And her haircut is something I could never pull off. She dresses timid, simple – yet her black and white floral designed shirt speaks a wild side that is packaged away as a sort of heirloom.

And hello fellow traveler! What do we have here? Hmm, a man/boy who speaks all the marijuana wonders of his world. He has a touch of quirkiness to him, yet he holds a dash of.. innocence and failing hope in his eyes.

Oh! Farewell lonely train commuters, I have to catch a train that’s coming in about 8 minutes (so they say).

(C) 2015
All rights belong to and stay with the author K.A. Shepherd. This poem (as well as many other pieces of writings), may be shared with friends on social media networks, but may not be tampered, published, or sold to make profit in any way without the author’s consent.

Observational Nature – NYC 4 Express Train

My take on the lives of people I walk past everyday. 

There’s a woman diagonal from me and her bag says, “gotta love a good sale.” and I know she’s gotta love a good credit card bill. A man just walked by; hoodie on his head, red flannel, begging for money. He isn’t hungry in the way any decent person would wish him to be. And an agitated Caucasian man with a dirty sense of life to him, prepared to get off so he could capture the drug flag – or he was just sick of seeing the same remedial routine that people live off of.

An older gentleman sits next to me with a face of exhaustion and a briefcase that says, “I have a master’s degree in historical arts,” but that’s just one of the many degrees he could entail. And diagonal from me are four women who won’t be friends in the next four years or less; it’s a co-worker thing, I guess. What bonds them are their jobs and their divorces and their addiction to buying useless shit at K-Mart.

And the two women in front of me are connected by a random coincidence; just that they have a few things in common and so they think there’s a possibility to become best friends for life – a modern child like fantasy that’s usually smashed in a couple of months or years like the phantom existence of Santa Clause. And there is a women whose feet seem to speak her entire life’s’ struggles.

So many good looking foreign men with so little time or too much time. They gain inspiration from a totaled, disgusting place like NYC and I admire the admiration when they see a typical building light up. And there are many beefed up Frankensteins trolling the streets as well, with their planet fitness shirts and their bald heads that somehow always remain bald and their obsession with candy crush. Too many of them. And never in moderation.

Oh, the depression is running rampant on this train, like a hungry rapist who refuses to put his dick back in his pants after violating someone. It’s just there – hanging. No precise target in mind, just primal instinct. So the one Hispanic friend is left alone from her “friends” (coughs) gold digging whores (coughs) after they stumbled off the train in their stiletto heels and now, she’s dreading the loneliness that awaits the rest of her night. Although she has teenage kids, that can’t tape the longing for a partner. She still shares the bed with her youngest wishing she’d turn over in the middle of the night and get fucked like love.

(C) 2015
All rights belong to and stay with the author K.A. Shepherd. This poem (as well as many other pieces of writings), may be shared with friends on social media networks, but may not be tampered, published, or sold to make profit in any way without the author’s consent.