Call it love.

The lone survivor of the ambush and subsequent tortures suffered survivor’s guilt and post traumatic stress disorder for his remaining days. Mostly in bed waiting to hear from an ally.

Solace never came. No trust or hope now. Just ruin. Ruin and decay. And one lone broken poet spreading the story, but leaving off the ending—he will have none think ill of his ally.
Continue reading Call it love.

White Jumpsuit

This means more time to do things we really enjoy.
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She is dragged from her car and revitalized.
She takes her place on the assembly line.
It’s OK.
She will sleep on the drive home.

OK, so…like happy thoughts, and beauty in the mundane.

Phew, I need to come up for a bit. It’s getting bleak up in here.

Although the Warning still holds, and I’m still working on The Project, I need to back down a little, gain my bearings, write some happier stuff.

Oh, I’m all for cutting until it bleeds… but I also have to look out for myself. It’s frighteningly easy to get sucked up into poemspace and never come out; not so appealing.

I’ll try to weave a scaffolding of humor and delight to hang from while producing this harsh art.