Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Fire Of My Loins

I am sitting in a whirlwind,

of woeful, wistful voices,

veering closer,

as I sit with my smug smile,

and my cheap notebooks,

full of cheap cracks,

about everyone I perceive to have punished me.

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I close my windows,

just to make sure I’m alone,

waking up when both the sun and moon are sleeping,

so the city is my own,

and I do not have to share.

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Line to line,

I get by fine,

prosey,

pretentious Princess,

fucking my feelings,

and my finest work,

every night,

because they satisfy me,

in a way no man or woman ever could.

Screaming silently,

drowning in my own divine decadence,

dreaming in Spanglish,

slow motion declarations of devotion,

from a carousel of cancelled affections.


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RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
In The Garden Of The Free Children
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