The Books by Patrick J. Hughes


Off the Record with the Author – Latest Updates

  • Wings of a rolling stone

    Not every cage is made of iron.Some are built from old conversations,from names you stopped answering to,from promises made in darker yearsto versions of yourselfthat no longer exist.I carried them all.The guilt.The noise.The endless chorus of expectationssung by peoplewho never learned the weightof the songs they placed on my shoulders.For years,I mistook survival for living.Mistook…

  • Maybe Dirt, Maybe Him

    They said he was doing better.You can tell by the wayhe now answers textsthree days lateinstead of never. By the groceries.By the haircut.By the practiced smilethat fits most rooms­if the lighting is kind. They said growth looks good on a man.No one mentionedit grows back through the bonelike roots lifting stone. He keeps a four-leaf…

  • The Last Night Before Collection Day

    I kept a cracked crown on the shelf, polished it like it meant something. I should have noticed the grime beneath the gold paint, the way it flaked when I breathed near it. Your throne of narcissistic lies was always paper. I planted hope in the dark anyway. Thought love would find a way through…

  • The Cold Forge

    Some nights, the air hums like a wire under tension,and memory tastes metallic.You light another thought like a match,watch it flare,then drop it before it burns your fingers.Names shift like constellationsyou’ve learned not to chase them.Meaning is a slow current,dragging fragments of what once wasinto something that almost holds.The sea in you keeps time,not by…

  • I am what survived

    My mind won’t quiet Nothing shuts it down I’m just fine The smile is practiced The wall stays in place I rage inside The pain, the sadness, the loss Who am I now? The lies show a facade The silence feels protective But listen— Silence isn’t weakness it’s steel cooling in fire The mask isn’t…

  • Raise Hell

    Do not mourn me, don’t bury me under folded flags and empty words. Keep your bugles, keep your polished boots. That’s for show. We lived in the dust, the rust, the smoke. Remember the bullshit, the endless waiting, the orders that made no sense. Remember how we laughed anyway— too loud, too long, because if…

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