whom(nothing but comfort
)is an aching nape
wake to,fresh one morning
,folded over from
the previous night's joy
a crazy racked skull
of guilt.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 9:59 AM UTC
whom(nothing but comfort
)is an aching nape
wake to,fresh one morning
,folded over from
the previous night's joy
a crazy racked skull
of guilt.
i haven't been writing much since the end of last year. medication makes it difficult to get a fist round any sort of coherance - it's a ***** to try and wrestle a poem out of a thought who moves not unlike a wet fish on the boardwalk.
i posted a lot of snippets like this last year. unfinished but wholly something in themselves. simply like a hand is a hand.
