Tag Archives: writers
The need to write poetry is a tickle down my throat I must cough up even if I don’t want to. Advertisements
I trace my fingertips over his chest learning how his heartbeats like a blind girl learns braille.
She smoked cigarettes, knowing the smoke was the tunnel her demons walked to enter her lungs.
Your sour judgement is a constellation of approaches you throw without trying to know me at all.
At which point did butterflies inside turn to crows feasting on fear clogging my veins and bones?
The origami our entwined hands form flutters so delicately in love’s storms.
I write poetry, not because I am emotional, but rather to recall the few feelings that visit my numb heart.
And again, I return from the dead; adding ‘Lazarus’ to my list of names.
Why do my heart’s strings pull from anywhere instead from somewhere?
Dying is poetic and I write poems extremely well.