The Writing Corner


a bustled bed

sizzle of bacon

a warmth, a hearth

askew of pictures

memories mapped out

Perfect. just


a house perfectly cluttered

coupons clipped on the table

that stain on the carpet

curtains bought at full price

lavender–it has to be Lavender

but the smell of sage

a pile of perfectly unfolded


collections of coffee table books


throw pillows and a section of couch

sunken in like the carpet

leading from the front door

darkened from use.

a magic bullet

and other cheap, lived-in


work brought from home

for later

it’s saturday

the house needs tending

at the middle of it all

You and Someone else


est. 2012

we used to avoid each other.

fire and rain,

astray from the other,

for one always begets the other.

but such as the point of life

is death, i cannot stop

my steady pursuit.

i am suited to you,

a depressed longing

a girl i can learn from.

persistence and longing.

unconditional and fathomless.

rivers struggle to match


rushing over, wild and full

full of life, ambition.

but delicate and soothing

she teaches me.

a girl i can learn from.

patience and endurance,

mountainous in my mental presence

and wizened, truly

in spirit. nothing else matters.

this girl i can learn from.

loving in a way, i can only strive for

in a way only she can teach me.


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?

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