Something Less Poetic

violent sky furies spark

summer nights like summer days

rumblings strike

roll and allow

grey glimpses

as rain aims down

the only sound

that brings you peace

when it storms and lights

be the man

that challenges the gods

for me.

Sun Shot

Burst in light

with a shimmer and smile

you’re already

my flesh

Stare into its face

wide eyed and brave

with a twist and peek

I’m already

blind.

Drifter, loose stones

float over water

where walks end

and hollows cave

Gumstick throttle,

we’re almost

who we need to be

dream we die easy

and live

to watch the rain

in sunspots.

I wrote a children’s story last week about a teddy bear. I’m not gonna lie. I kinda like it a lot. Maybe I’ll keep it.

 Mother brings me no comfort these days. Should she? She doesn’t know I have already learned to die. I kiss death at every word released. Parts of me gone, never to return. They never tell you that, when you pick up a pen for the first time to learn your name. To learn letters and your thoughts. I chased down pens to strike back at the blank page, pens rightfully mine and stolen and stolen back. But this is a sorcery without a master. It is a practice in insanity. People say writers open doors they cannot close. Not only do I open doors, but windows as well, just ajar for the rain to wet the sill. A writer’s greatness is judged only by their loss. It isn’t about them at all really. It is about loss. The more a writer loses, the more powerful their words become. And once the words are spilled and any remaining drop of sanity is splattered across endless pages, and the writer has finally died of her wounds, in worship to the only god she ever truly knew, maybe then greatness can be found. But only after she cannot see it.