I used to be a writer

Piano fingers, are lobster claws. A lazy cell evolves. in reverse. Paintbrushes collecting dust slump in tin cups brown strips of rust Camera lenses giving me the eye wondering why I won’t pick up the pen and paper. or at least try. what is a feeling. internal hallucination of a sensation None of it is…

something like water

silver threads silk spooling my fingers. Body like bread crumbling in my arms. Something like water. Carrying  current voice of an ocean fluid, yet full. The glass on my lips warm and cold. the fumes of my breath the gold on my neck the hail outside of my window. It is you. Imagine opening your…

Invasive

23:11 10/19/17 You are no psychologist, But you know how to play the brain. Roll the dice on the green velvet of undefined gray matter Snake eyes; see no more Gamble away a few calamitous memories In exchange for some exhilaration. Won’t give into interim temptation, Neuron signals higher expectation. You mind reader you… Playing…

You’re Creative, don’t you forget.

When I write, it all feels right. I can’t complain. But where does it come from, can you explain? Inspiration, is that what you call it? I don’t think of it that way. It’s more of a… How do you phrase it… realizing being lazy won’t do shit type of ambition if you get what…

Cold

Cold. Cold is the night when she holds your tender hands, kissing them with frosted tips. Cold. Cold is her heart, a marmalade of crystal ice. She sheds her cape of snow onto your shoulders, and it melted from your vice. Cold. Cold is the breath which vapors from your face. It benevolently led you…