What do you want to write?
It's not what I want to write. It's that I felt the warmth of love and conflated it with burn of passion and turned that into a need to tell anyone who would listen that there is something more than the think is happening in the world around them. It has nothing to do with anything larger than the person who they just saw look back. All the magic in the world exists in that moment. I am a proper propogandist for the chasing of hearts.
It's not what I want to write. It's what I'm compelled to tell the world. I will go to my grave singing the song of chase that which holds your heart and that you give yourself to most dearest.
If I die penniless, alone, despised by all to whom I confess my heart, but regarded well enough by those who have read my works then I will have lived well enough by my measure. I'll be judged thereafter. That's less my business than that of my maker.
Alright faggot, what do you feel compelled to write?
Do you want to collab?
That's actually a damned good question. I gave up poetry for a few years because it felt like I was just writing the same thing over and again.
I'm not much of a writer but I'd offer what I can.
I think I'm too much consumed by pretty girls of late. How do you feel about nature writing?
I won't make any promises because I'm an inconsistent writer but, I would be open to trading thoughts on deserts, forests, frost, ponds, lakes, fronds, volcanos, ashen clouds, azure skies, and the like.
Take me away from this shit I've ben penning to the delight of the zombies in my head and maybe I'll rise to the occasion of satisfying someone else's need to pretend to not be dead.
I think I'm too much consumed by pretty girls of late.
Retarded romance seems to be the only genre that still sells
When did Walden Park and Leaves of Grass fall out of favor?
If I'm gonna blow anything up the skirts of the contemporary poetry scene I think it must be "Shut the fuck up you stupid little bitch. You haven't lived enough years to even begin to know what it means to be in love let alone understand the intrinsic need for an unrequited desire".
The Poet Resigned [2012]
The poet closes his eyes Yesterday's ache is today's rage For what? There's nothing to ache for Nothing to rage at Just meaningless fiction Aching for emptiness Raging at absence Today he would burn the books In ritualistic fashion To stop the voices Alternately screaming Then weeping Poetry on to his page He pleads for the pen To be cut from his hand "Let the reign of silence be met With cheers of joy by all Who have suffered The dark days Tormented nights And pointless longings of my work." With one final fading Whimpered declaration of love The poet resigns One last lie To complete her collection But which is the lie That he lived Or that he can say goodbye