Category Archives: Prose

Walking out, walking in, walking away

She is gone.  She turns the corner.  She is so unbelievably beautiful.  I catch a second glimpse of her.  I can’t help but stare.  Sharp features offset her calm eyes.  She’s so unbelievably beautiful.  I wonder what she looks like.

Walking out, walking in, walking away

She is gone.  She turns the corner.  She is so unbelievably beautiful.  I catch a second glimpse of her.  I can’t help but stare.  Sharp features offset her calm eyes.  She’s so unbelievably beautiful.  I wonder what she looks like.

This past week has witnessed the death of me

I’ve been omitting words from conversations I’ve been forgetting some letters in the words I write Like the N in ‘Gree’ I don’t even know why I had written down the word green I thought that today was Sunday, not

This past week has witnessed the death of me

I’ve been omitting words from conversations I’ve been forgetting some letters in the words I write Like the N in ‘Gree’ I don’t even know why I had written down the word green I thought that today was Sunday, not

An interview with melancholy

I feel numb. It happens after each moment of intense joy. It’s the gaps, the pauses, and the silences. What you feel is longing. You long for someone to share these moments with. Someone who would understand and comprehend your

An interview with melancholy

I feel numb. It happens after each moment of intense joy. It’s the gaps, the pauses, and the silences. What you feel is longing. You long for someone to share these moments with. Someone who would understand and comprehend your

Same old song

I am troubled by your blasphemous disdain.  It is appalling how you constantly refer to writers as fickle.  Especially when you are unappreciative of what was written for and about you.  As writers, we do not envision something new.  We

Same old song

I am troubled by your blasphemous disdain.  It is appalling how you constantly refer to writers as fickle.  Especially when you are unappreciative of what was written for and about you.  As writers, we do not envision something new.  We

The lodger

You’re a black hole Stuck in a constellation’s body Like birthday letters I don’t quite know what to make of you

The lodger

You’re a black hole Stuck in a constellation’s body Like birthday letters I don’t quite know what to make of you

What did I do in my previous life?

I am male, and twenty-five years old I have the physical ailments of an eighty year old male The mind of a fifty year old male in crisis The longings of a thirty-five year old female who’s divorced And she

What did I do in my previous life?

I am male, and twenty-five years old I have the physical ailments of an eighty year old male The mind of a fifty year old male in crisis The longings of a thirty-five year old female who’s divorced And she

Taphophile

There’s something beautiful about cemeteries.  The comfortable silence, penetrated only by the feel of the misty rain on your face.  The clouds block the sun, inviting you to take a better look at what has become of the world.  Words

Taphophile

There’s something beautiful about cemeteries.  The comfortable silence, penetrated only by the feel of the misty rain on your face.  The clouds block the sun, inviting you to take a better look at what has become of the world.  Words