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
and now we spend our final days
waiting for twilight to deepen
for night to obscure the edges
of humanity’s aching soul—
the night is for thrill seekers, for superheroes and poets; only the morning is for the truly brave.
my life is a winterscape
that which remains is disturbingly strong
and that which ceases is beautifully dead
I write to midnight
To ghosts, trying to stay sober
To soldiers with tattooed arms
To the architect of my dreams
To supernovas and black holes
To burning bridges
To the rain
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.
there’s a way to remain
a dead poet is only as dead as his words