Long gone are the days when poets would write in a formal style.
Spenserian, Petrarchan, Alexandrian- wait, I don’t know if the last one is real! 282 more words
2 days, 17 hours ago
Darkness of His Dreams
Wrapped in a blanket,
Warm, safe; nothing can hurt me.
Don’t want to get up.
3 days, 12 hours ago
Perhaps, every distressing step
that you make is a compulsory coda
that grants shifting shelter,
like a deep cold coverlet
or a carelessly concocted alibi. 11 more words
5 days, 19 hours ago
Bones bleached in the sun,
Licked clean by maggots and worms
Once living, breathing,
With dreams, goals and family.
Now dry bones in the valley. 32 more words
1 week ago
Over time I have observed
In fine verses walls preserved.
References that is to those
Which divided woods from rose
Gardens or perhaps a field – 68 more words
Straight outta Hibbing,
Guitar in hand, New York bound.
Think I’ll write some songs
1 week, 3 days ago
Went down the desert where the vultures feed
On human flesh rotting in the sunshine.
Pluck eyes, testicles, suck out the seed.
Bloated remains, corpses, on which they dine. 94 more words
1 week, 5 days ago