This is not what writer’s block looks like,there are plenty of words jumbled within my flooded brain
scrawled across the bricks and sidewalks of what’s left of this grey matter metropolis
so yes,the story continues in one odd fucking way or another…
Some Time
I have not written in some time,I write my own story every second of the day to others
Adding to the mesh fabric of their story
For better for worse to wear
We are all the authored adorned penned lyric
Waiting to be hummed silently
Relatable non
Like all things,they just manifest when you least expect them..
pop up from a whack a troll hole,an hilarious pitfall as you land on your face
as you laugh at yourself
no boy scout training can prepare for that
no pocket knives or special knots
not even a fictional answer could possibly even hit the mark
a figment of words
something you could never picture any ever saying to you
Murphy;s Law?
No
That was my dogs name
Born Married
Love found me early as child well before I knew what lost causes were
long before I understood what an invisible war was for
Pierce was a saint before I knew any latin or prayer
taught in twilight of the wrongs or rights of the world
the voiceless were my allies no matter their color or street they lived on
Christy and Phil sang to me of romantic struggle,history and moral
Joe and D sung the poetry of what could be
my heroes never could save the world nor was it the aim
they only drew maps to follow
of what could be possible
Reader Meet Author #6
“So I hear your a poet as well as a hero,so what kind of poetry?” I was asked out of the blue..
I had no real answer so I blushed then mumbled out that just because I’m called a poet or hero does not really make me one
“So what do you write about then?” they pressed
Lately its been much rubbish about water and nonsense about an old pair of boots,I ordered another drink to fill some space that would hopefully change the topic
“Before all of this,what do you write about? Girls? Does it rhyme?”
Inhaling my pint I set the glass down,called for another and added I write about that..pointing to the empty glass
“Why can’t you just explain it to me?” was asked with a quick puff of annoyance
My facial expressions usually give me away but it seems it was not being noticed by this point so after a sip of my drink,knocking it to a half I let it fly..
I write a lot about being born broken hearted of sorts and seeing beauty in the dirt of this city
bad romantic notions of the world looking better most days through the bottom of an empty pint glass,a smoking streetlight as a muse
feeling backwards in a forward falling universe of constant turbulant anxiety
a laugh in the rainy doorway on avenue A
people squarely questioning round feelings and words for the sake of words
“Umm ok,and people like this?”..”I guess I will take your word for it”
I finished my pint
told her to look me up
and thanked her for the poem that she just wrote
Love,Ire and Song
So come on let’s be young, let’s be crass enough to care
Let’s refuse to live and learn, let’s make all our mistakes again yes
And then darling, just for one day, we can fight and we can win
And if only for a little while, we could insist on the impossible
Leave the mourning the to the morning
Yeah pain can be killed
With aspirin tablets and vitamin pills
But memories of hope, and glorious defeat
Are a little bit harder to beat
