Push

                                                                 


Do not push me...
.....like she pushed you.

Cuz I'm close to the edge, and I'm scared of heights, and I don't like falling or crying or hurting anymore. 

Plus One

Who could it be?

This plus one, that follows my silly words of absurd meaning I'm leaning towards my plus one. My sick sanctuary, this place I come to drink and think when nothing's right and I have no fight left but to push on against the blindfold, feeling like Helen Keller where is that feller. Femme or foe, don't stump my big toe...a smile across my face as up the hill I race for an audience I have none, but I still have my plus one. My light in the night.

Inspiration

What makes the writer pick up the pen?

How does it begin?

By discipline? An endocrine?

A whim, a whisper in the rain? A pleasure, a pain?


What does a writer do when writing has left the realm of its desire to acquire loneliness and fashion becomes a lack of passion for the light is night and eyes cannot see the path of the pathetic, a jagged little pill, a diuretic.

Branches snap underfoot as the mind fills with soot, like a chimney sweep in the deep darkest carcinogen blinding like hallucinogen.                                                        

But could even the master  clean this disaster?
                                                   
Send me a London Fire I scream in the char or a drink at the bar, my  mind is lost in scatter God stop the clatter that  evades my..

InSpIrAtIoN.