Poetry · Writing

last day off

last year a shakey handoff (at best) constantly choosing between life and sleep haven’t slept in years when i do; my dreams were a gothic spinoff love interest played by wednesday. black and white lens for thee ending send-off all black molotov (for those who couldn’t be here) with fireworks and a rip off.

Poetry · Writing

it’s january

am i a real person hard to tell non from fiction; empty beach growing waves crashed against lost sand; is this a metaphor? am i the wave? the sand? more like the beach, as a fly on the wall watching the waves watching the sand waiting for something different but i remember;