poetry

difficult things

It is a difficult thing to
do,
reading poems
about abortions.

Climbing out of the pit,

I talk to you at night.
But what do I know about death and dying?

Advertisements
Standard
other people's poems, poetry

the glass essay

“I”
I can hear little clicks inside my dream.
Night drips its silver tap
down the back.
At 4 A.M. I wake. Thinking
of the man who
left in September.
His name was Law.
My face in the bathroom mirror
has white streaks down it.
I rinse the face and return to bed.
Tomorrow I am going to visit my mother.
Standard

maturity, non profit style:

screen shot devin liz retards

texts
Image