Poet

The glow of a distant city beneath a desert sky full of stars.

i am the words i speak, i’m the things i do, i’m not how i look, or the things i accrue. you try to define me with the simplest of words but i’m far beyond that, though you think it absurd.

[continue]. . .

A reclusive girl, in a red dress, sitting alone on a lone rock in the middle of a river, in the early morning

Everything’s already been said. There’s nothing left to say. Everything’s been heard and read. There’s nothing left today.

[continue]. . .

A small, pink flower grows up between the unfinished, wood planks of a home deck.

I flay myself
on the altar of art,
cut down to the bone,
break every last part.

I write it on paper,
type it into my phone,
share it with the world,
and feel utterly alone.

[continue]. . .