The Writing Corner


I felt the hunger.
Again, oh again.
It’s a matter of self control.
You aren’t a kid,
Whatever you are…
I never climbed aboard,
The wagon–
Some convoy of healthy living,
Or train of pure being.
Just a quick dip, I’ll come back.

I’m too smart for that.

Aren’t I?
Aren’t I too smart for all of this?
If not, then what have I learned?
I keep pace with my wayward soul,
Even into oblivion.
This sweet pull which brings me
To my knees.
Every fucking time.
Listen to me, the pain is coming.
It always is.

Lie over and again to myself.

It’s okay.
I’m okay.



I feel as though I’m suffocating.
My love for you
flourishes, yet
my creativity mulls
on the backburner.
I can scarce write a line,
play a new song,
I’m lost in you, it feels right,
but horribly wrong.
My words have shriveled
like a rose pressed between pages,
but will our love last
like words, which are ageless?

Blue Blood

Cruel it is, indeed
blue blood runs
with not a trace of regret.
Red once,
and drinking in the air
dying in the cold.
What spurs on utter lack
of hesitation,
to fill in the holes
of a world spilling into chaos,
more often than not.
Moving parts acting as they should.

Oh, I long to be alike.
To fill the voids,
to show a lack
of selfishness,
And be what you,
what I want to be.


How could you stand me?
While underhandedly,
I’ve torn my robes
and ran so far away.

Scarce is a home
when I am alone.
Suffice to shy away,
from what I’ve lovingly known.

Have I grown bitter?
Or to laziness prone?
All that I know,
is I’ve torn my robes.

Trailing upon memories old,
I’ve been efface to grace
from place to place–
but I never grow cold.

Some soft persistent pull,
to open my mind, to be of time,
wary always,
the stain upon my soul.

I’ve ran from place to place
with unmended robes,
forever and always,
I won’t grow cold.

Tell me, is there such a thing,
As being alone?

She moves in a way,

regardless of her surrounding.

She stands out.

A perfectly curious being,

whose movements are free,

from embarrassment or constraint.

A wisp of pure fallen cotton

she moves amidst the softest breeze

never touching the ground.

She stands out.

Doesn’t she?

I lit a cigarette tonight.

And for some reason

it tasted like the first time.

Burdens on my mind

music in the background.

The smoke wisped away in a gentle breeze,

as it did five years ago this week.

The only difference

was that I didn’t

choke and cough

though the drags I take

are much deeper now.

And I’m left to wonder,

is it all some sign

of maturity?

Or am I simply addicted?


I’m getting tired

of the streetlights,

neon signs and golden breath.

The static and distance,

veiled self deprecation

and intermittent elation.

Its nothing new

I suppose.

But the recognizable

premonition of emotion

grows ever more unmistakable.

Truth be told, I’m more tired of that.

so back under dimly lit streetlights

I’ll go.

A dip back into the choking in my throat

with liquid heat,

and a chest that burns,

just for something different.

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