The pallor of my skin mocks me. I miss the sun’s feverish kisses On my brow until its touch burns. The pain means I am loved.
Mania
I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical And I love and I love And I give and I give Until like like a well loved toy My skin is worn thin And my entrails spill out from the seams. And the pounding ratatatat tattoo of my heart whipped into frenzy is calmed by the panicked coda of my hyperventilations. We all have our lows.
No Rest For the Wicked
Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high, brain bubbles like a percolator on speed, firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake, inciting me to violent turns of phrases, penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched. They say to hide one’s light under the bushel is a sin, and this must be my punishment. No rest for the wicked.
Knock Knock Jokes, or Writer’s Block Haiku
Knock Knock Jokes (Writer’s Block Haiku) knock knock- who’s there? what do you call a writer who never writes? a joke.