Words and gore racing through my head like a Stephen King haunted diesel.
I wish I could tell you how I’m feeling, but I keep those thoughts even from myself.
Poetry is not an autopsy so stop lifting the sheet looking for a corpse.
I’m committing these words to the cloud because I like how they sound when his music rides in and saves the day.
The nights used to be quite lonely until I found a composer who actually gives a damn.
He makes things more seamless when throwing everything including the kitchen sink at the endless words and gore I supply so shamelessly.
I have no clue what I’m doing here.
It just feels right so I thought I’d stand here until either you noticed me or I was arrested for loitering.
Don’t pretend you didn’t feel it too when I brushed up against you and you winced.
Not sure if I’m feeling inspired, but I don’t feel like making a scene so I am going to finish this poem against my better judgement.
Words and gore roaring from my cavity as I reach for another square and wonder if I’ve seen all of the Seinfeld episodes.
Poetry is not an affliction so stop scratching for an alibi and just confess to what you did or did not do in the heat of the moment.