Sometimes the impulse to write is in my bones and buzzing in my brain
My skull shakes and the voices feel like and earthquake
For me, it's always been a disease
An unforgiving compulsion that stops me in my tracks
These words escape, Christ, I don't even think
It's like being possessed
So I picked up this ******* red pen to perform an excorcism

I avoid the hours between 11 pm and 5 am
Light does not exist then—
Only useless questions, dangerous thoughts, and the Void
Darkness swallows reason and spits out impulse
All of these mix together and try to drown me
Melancholy fills my mouth and I gag on its rotten taste
Cold seeps through my skin and settles in my bones
I am floating through midnight and I have never felt so alone
The constellations no longer console me
Galaxies hurtle away from me
And black holes call my name

The one guaranteed to break your heart,
he seems like a good idea.



"I hate you" will definitely get you out of this one.



If your lies spill out of your mouth faster than your heart is beating,
they won't even know.

Your hands
Wave
                            Over
       Me
  Still
         The threshold
       To
            Guilt
                              Presents
                     The years
Overdo
In some less-than-conscious
                   Battle
And
             The         lines
Reassure
                    Great
Trouble
     To Combat
              Global
                                Impulse

is different for each meandering
but arises unbidden though there
must be a prompt a spring a welling-
up that begins to trickle down the page
as the current courses down this arm
to fingertips grippimg the pen lightly
but firm enough to make the marks
and trickle a stream to slake again
my thirst.  Wyre ? Ribble ? Mersey ?
Thames ? Rhine ? Danube ? Ganges ?
Amazon - yes immense over life as Amazon.

(c) C J Heyworth

Impulse.
Im-pulse.
I'm a pulse.
Am I spontaneo-
I'm a pulse.
Im-pulse
Impulse.

Those lips that I kissed tonight
Didn't taste like you.
The black cotton shirt I clung to
Didn't smell like you.
So I kissed him harder.
And I pulled him closer.
I tried to push you away.
I wanted to conceal you
In my darkest memories.
But when he walked away
Without a glance,
I realized that
My lips,
My arms,
My everything,
Weren't enough for him either.

I miss the days
where my biggest concern was how to
carry a sixty-four ounce grape slushie
from the gas station
while riding my Huffy.

Still, not much has changed.
I'm still awful at planning ahead,
and I still act on impulse,
and I still can't ride a bike
with no hands. It feels like the scrapes
on my elbow are open.

Summer was never really my season.