sleepless nights.

menthol lights.

all spent writing

and what better way to conclude the night but with a sunrise.

now i’ll have breakfast with some Bukowski before i backread all of the beautiful shit you guys post.

ok enough playing with words

i should probably eat something before i pass out

but god i can’t wait.

why is it that none of this exists in any bookstore

yet here on this humble little site

is more depth than they can ever hope to keep in stock

people, pixels, catharsis and emotions abound.

that’s prose.

(“prose.” THE FUCKING DOT btw. I don’t know why it’s there, but it just makes the already perfect site into something no words do justice too.)

jesus i talk too much when i don’t sleep; so i’m done :]

i thought i knew writing

until i met you

you had cut your wrists, and out bled

inspiration the likes of which

none of us had ever seen before

drawing Sharpie tattoos of sweet rhymes

and old regrets on my skin

but always making sure

to add a smiley face at the end.

we thought that it could last forever,

our little writing duet

knitting those hearts

with words of perfect pitch

but you were torn away from me

much too soon,

our interlaced fingers pulled apart

and our long embraces ended too quickly.

i watched your words slowly wither away,

as you did too

we ended that one evening under fluorescent lights

and starched hospital sheets

and the last thing i remember sitting on my wrist

was your old Sharpie tattoo.

:)