Riffs, raps, song, ink slung to a righteous bass line, and possibly a poem or two.
Imagine that you lost your sight.Imagine that you lost your pen in a fight.Imagine that you lost your pages in the night.Imagine living in a world that ain’t right.Imagine that you lost your ability to imagine.Now, wouldn’t that be the worst kind of fright?That’s what it’d be like.Villains are writers …
Focus. Work on finishing that poem. It grows. It shrinks. It breathes. Perhaps overthinks. Because that’s what a poem does. It is as I am. It lives its own life. She rights me as I write her but she won’t wait and I find the poem is poet and I …
She lives in these false little timesin her false little skinsso to stitch together a soulfor her ghost collecting them.
Before the wind picked up and moved on she thought she heard a voice, a new one remembering how to listen and how to speak. She found the boy on a blanket under a tree but he was not speaking to her. Not yet. He was speaking to the tree. …
A groundhogtries to dighis way outfrom undermy thunderbut even he’senlightened.
