Foggy scribblings of last nights misinterpretations
                                                            Scattered chairs

Cotton flesh and torn stitching
                                                  Doggy dandruff

Burnt air, Bic lighters and crooked intentions
                                    Ashes to ashes

Soldiers marching in silence
                       Keep moving

Layabout possessions and broken things
A roof, at least

i've never seen
a single thing
about you
that i haven't liked

I don’t write to which conveys into a story;
I write to what captures an emotion,
a feeling.

I'm not exactly a poet or writer,
yet somewhere in between the two.

I feel unique and fiery,
under the cool, blue moon,
and salted and peppered under the dry, hot sun.

Fueled with anger, all my writing needs.
A new exploration through the journey unknown,
using awkward wording, unlike graceful butterflies.

I'm okay with myself when shielded from the rest.