Settling in with the Setting Sun

Her toes curled in her damp socks, drying in front of the little space heater beneath her desk. A cup of coffee-milk (to call it milk-coffee was to stretch towards fantasy) moved around her face: first to her left cheek, then her forehead, over to the right cheek, her lips, and then back again in …

Advertisement

A Reminder

I wish I forgave you your faults,And perhaps been more aware of mine,But I'm a coward,And left you behind,So this poem has no purpose,Just a reminder that I fucked up,And the fault was entirely mine.

Self/Loathing/Others

The clicking of my keyboard,Draws formless thoughts on blank screens,My vacuous imaginings growing leaden,While rose-tinted dreams drip drip bleed. To think once these hands,Held yours and satisfaction both,But now make vapid commentary,On loves lost,For idiot strangers to gape at,And simpering fools to sniffle to,While I forget forget forget,With every stroke of the ENTER key. I …

Add a Title

Some days I don’t want to write, I want to scream, I want to drown in my own insecurity, I want to wallow in this tepid depression, I want to be held by someone who cares, And then I want to tear out their throat when they betray me, I want someone to rightly call …

Through Pain

I’ve a nostalgic sort of suffering,An ear infection, if I am to understand(or a slender blade piercing either side of my skull)Hot pads and an old dryer relieves the pain,But it’s the deafness that swallows me in helplessness,Waking up in the middle of the night in tears,Weeping at my pitiful helplessness,Weakness of my body wracked …

2am Denny’s, Backbooth

There's something about 2am Denny's,That I could never put to words,That could obliviate the worst of the night,And give you exactly what you deserve,Like hash browns and eggs to soak up regret,Or a patty melt devoured without reserve(that'll get that taste out of your mouth),Or just something wholesome for your nerves,Like a cuppa, or maybe …

4:44am, Monday

Breath on the window,Waiting to the last moment,It's fucking cold out.

On Ghosts and Spirits

The last thing I'd want is to return,To be forced to continue this game,To be trapped in this limbo of life,Forced to repeat this cruel shame.I'd rather let go of it all,This miserable, endless tirade,Condemn myself to some rest,Sleep in the bottom of my grave.

Not a poem

This is no poem,It's simply an idle thought:I think that I still miss you.

Thank you, Atticus

His hands worked slowly,Pulling up the dark covers,Tucking me in, safe. Even winter's chill,Can do nothing in the face,Of a father's love.