Tag Archives: writer


Who spits molten lead as I?

Whose shivers leave stone teeth and staring eyes

Who bites the blood into prose and parade

Who paints the bruise into shades that don’t fade

Who lets the lightning in to translate the thunder

Who breathes in the glass dust to exhale the wonder

Who faces the fire to transcribe the burns

Who worries the lion to feel its great fur

Who walks under currents to see the sea play

Who jumps in the lava to rescue the clay

Who pines to feel pain just to write in this way?

Thank God, Myself gets to come along

Or the poet in my brain wouldn’t stay. 


It is nigh on impossible

To creep about at night, desperately trying not to wake your parents, when you are wearing four dog tags 

Chained about your neck like a claim to life

And three of them are entirely unnecessary, and you are wishing fervently that you had not wistfully clasped them on earlier that day;

But it is far too late and too quiet now to remove them, and so you walk like a swaying tree

Leaned back, tilted crazily

Trying to keep the jangly bits of metal pinned to your chest,

Silenced by their imprisonment against cotton t-shirt,



Wishing — ever so fervently that the tiny beast that guards your parents’ room will not launch into a fit of yowling at the sound of your 



about in the hall. 

(Go to sleep now, you tell yourself! No more poetry — the night is sick of you!)