Haunted poems never die.
I suppose it's an inconvenient convenience. It's the morning birds singing too early, too loudly, and always on the wrong days, but yet, still incessant reminders that life demands to be lived, to be sung about.
Constantly oscillating between pulling the trigger on life and burning the house down. Both reaping very different outcomes, I assure youโI assure me?
for me, it is so much easier to write than it is to do anything else. there isnโt a seduction i know deeper than the one that comes from finding the language that fits my tongue. it's my one pleasure that requires nothing from anyone else. requires nothing but honors everything .
ripple across a poetโs lake, and tossing me back into my castle. Iโve traded the leather chair for an antique upholstered in gold silk.
I may sail the seas of these tales, but not without my anchor, a key strung on a gold chain, a lighthouse, harbors, and a tireless current. โ