I love midnight dives when I’m lonely and drunk.
That’s the tricky thing about water under the bridge.
you have secrets I’d rather not know
and yet I peel away your layers
until I weep
my life is a winterscape
that which remains is disturbingly strong
and that which ceases is beautifully dead
Writer, I was in love with your expressive hands. I’ve curled up and slept peacefully in the curves of your beautiful o’s and a’s. Soared freely in the space in-between your lines. Touched the wet ink that stained my soul. After you left, I tried to write my own stories instead of living yours. And still, as I wearily sit behind my desk after a long day of work, I can’t help but cut my fingers on the painfully sharp edges of your silent dashes.
The soil is deep where flowers grow away from the sun.
sometimes I’m a writer,
sometimes just a drunk
yesterday I heard Heaven in Lana del Rey’s voice
today I looked it up on Google Maps
there’s a way to remain
a dead poet is only as dead as his words
go ahead, put your head in your hands
and curse your brooding nature
you’ll never get to Heaven, but
you could still be my 3. A.M. angel
the night is tall, dark and handsome, also
You may not believe me, but these jagged stripes across my chest are actually tell-tale scars. There was a time in which I could look at them with some amused distance, thinking they looked interesting, like crawling centipedes, or feebly stirring branches, or perhaps desolated railroads. Oh yes, I looked for comfort in all these silly metaphors, for shouldn’t I be grateful that my body, though damaged, is like a train still moving, still advancing?
But over the years I have grown prone to melancholy, the kind that makes me want to sleep in the afternoon and lay awake at night, listening to the city’s familiar cries, a melody of busy traffic, creaking insects and trees stirred by the storm. That’s when these scars, mimicking the abandoned railroads on my heart, start to whisper that I should set them free by letting someone run their gentle fingers over them.