A poet is like an unwound clock, without a key, lost in the moment...
as I hemorrhage a little onto paper, my letters falling away like birds in a hail storm, lost in unproductive foggy days and nights, stuffing disposable dreams, fear, malice, My heart taut and burdened, sweating illogical airs, ready to burst, Many nights spent stalking my words into... Sign in to see full entry.