Writing, Ideas, & Stories
mostly, i loved the editing.
looking at someone’s work
their body their life their soul- in my hands.
& they left wanted me to look after it
like a mother leaving their child for daycare
to be picked up
their sophomore year, changed, scared-
will they love the choices they made?
the hearts they broke, they may never know
but i do-
i was there for everything,
but don’t worry ms. worthy.
i think they’re ready for the world
i use to wr-
i use to post a lot, small moments
covered in a scarf
or bundles of blankets
like a timeline of me.
& somewhere along the way
i started to take in
this negativity that spawned:
some from these memories
from the dread of time
the doubt i have over these dreams.
more input then
i could process
all the good the bad and the ugly.
if everything was put into a blender
mashed, spewed out of a topless container
caught in all of my gears
along my side
locked up
& eventually
my audience lost interest in my work-
myself.
so now
high noon
moon beaming down like a spotlight.
crisp evening air blows through a chipped scarf down to these worn denim.
whistles of a challenger:
matching gray python boots and pistol
all that’s left is a trail of smoke and an eye meeting mine.
he whispers, “Every gun makes its own tune”.
it’s still early
have enough time to make it up
like late homework
ill blow it off
waste its time
lead them on
never commit
and disappoint my mother.
hated the way we left that place
shredded into bits in an open can
cigarette ash
half emptied bottles
and a couple of new years hats:
they were home made,
blue and pink glitter
baby announcement decertations
unused still in the box
plastic top hats
from a younger time
in a box labeled ‘memories’,
new headwear acquired;
and we toasted
to a place
a new place
more fabulous
than these hats.
as a man
as a person
as a living creature on this planet,
i believe
orange is an overhyped fruit.
no no
wait
listen
seriously
no come on seriously
the strawberry??
who gives a f-
they wished the worst on you
slip and fall
into a pool of your own blood
streaming from your diseased dreams
while your mother chokes
on her own shitty unseasoned cooking.
all for saying
you were excited for Moon Knight.
this little space
this little space that we carved out of wooden tools
this little space – is ours.
dingy dirty damp,
full of holes and ants in the summer
but it’s ours.
this little space
in outer space
they can see us dance
first time at second base
setting up our bookcase.
when we left
this little space
all that was left
some kid shoes, a needle and a jar of pickles,
this little place
has a lot of memories
packed in two separate cars.
future sight
is inexpensive
it only cost me
my youth
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.
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;
Saint's Muse 