Came back to see I never posted the entire series. It's a year or two late but oh well. Eight poems in total. The first four are "Part I" and the second four are "Part II". Any concrit is, as always, immensely appreciated.

It's never as good as it sounds." Rough rough rough draft, I'd love some concrit. I'm thinking this is the first of many drafts.

A nonet. You can't forget it but you'll never get the chance to remember it either... When it's all said and done.

She stirs slightly, small pink mouth peeking open in a little sigh that breathes air gently across the room..." - Even though this is five years later I still feel an odd connection to this piece and thus tried to polish it.

Or the impossibility of such.

These days I only write when they tell me to. And lately, that's not a lot.

When the human mind experiences a fever, it can produce some of the most vivid and stunning dreams. And sometimes, they transcend reality. Let lucid dreams be real.

Thus concludes the lesson. non-fiction - read prologue.

I have no idea what I'm doing but who does?

Or the lack thereof.

Something silly.

Five minutes with my teenage sister makes me feel ancient and disconnected. Concrit, as always, much appreciated.

We are all made of molecules and little else' Prose poetry - paragraph structure, poetic phrasing. Concrit anyone?

The past is always better.

We are all unfinished puzzles.

Epiphanies are boring. And bitter.

This was inspired by a piece of modern art, a moment in my editing class and an old poem of mine it's actually an incredibly drastic rewrite of Lipstick Lovers

Don't ever watch fundamentalist Christian videos on Youtube and then write poetry. This was my result.

A response to Carl Sandburg's poem A Sphinx. Concrit welcomed.

Shh it's really a tanka. Also, silly needs to be a genre.

The Sphinx and his Minx.

A variation on the haibun form with prose poetry a tanka I wish nostalgia was a category

I didn't believe she existed until she stood before my eyes.

How are we meant to get up there? Not religious because they talk about the ending and I'm all about the journey.

No one person can ever be forever. But we can try.

My writer's block sounds like an exasperated perfectionist's sigh.

divorce is a four letter word.

We do not have a rash... It's more like a permeating disease.

Yes.

Edit is up. I felt like leaving the original for comparisons sake. Cooking metaphors still leave me feasting.

I may be abstract but at least I'll turn you on.

A definition. It's obvious but when a poet gets frustrated, it's hard to create a metaphor out of a moron.

I like to be epigrammatic when it comes to brutality.

Edited. Concrit much appreciated. A poetic prose oneshot. A tangent of thoughts against reality.

A memory in ink.

Previously: Cato as a Prank. Concrit welcome and needed. The myth of reality.

Double tanka. I watch too much Hitchcock in my basement.

Half facthalf fiction because the truth is always stranger than fiction.

A tanka.

Because we were bored and stupid.

[the lock and key that closed the door] first personal poem in awhile. I guess even my superiority needs to fade into emotion.

Atheists pray too.

Sometimes you need to look around something to really see it. Short&tense.

Wasn't a bullfrog.

Forget work, give me a bath.

I'm on a kick and you can't deny me.

Opposite forces mean little in the light of caffeine highs.

clever design concept: you can't see smiles under executioners hoods.

Silk sheet daydreams.

Napoleonic wars and Diane Sawyer teeth. concrit needed

First you don't, then you do.

Trip yourself up into the world.

Four thousand years mean jack all.

i'm comingshe yells through slick night air, bared teethfake virility evident in her stripped thighs.

[1611: the end, last random chapter] all the letters that tell you everything and nothing.

prose poem, experiment. Not love, not lust, just us. You are Alice in Wonderland shadows.

observations on a monday morning.

nowadays it's just plain oldbubble and speech

word fun.

He's played this hand before and she's begging to a different hand every night.

fifteen year old fakers.

She's this quirky kind of pretty that intimidates you more than Kate Moss would..." You worry worry worry... short piece written in second person

how you look/in that trembling light..." do you see what i know?

there's a slow feeling/in stepping outside/lackluster brown negatives..." i know what i am. what are you today?

Up, up the stairs/he’s slowly tugging/my slick, pixie hands... short little organised piece about going nowhere.

You know how it goes.. there are minimalists.. there are pack rats." short one shot.

Its that sense of beauty and clarity within that ignites the passion...

and its that proverbial fork in the road... its finishing high school and starting life and getting all confused in the choices you have and the restrictions that are permanent

..tragically tripping marble green eyed ball of strokes and pokes and smiles... meant for you... to be just that little bit silly

i'm a freak in holey with the e, i'm no saint stockings ... and you're the wide-eyed slender piece of quirky that tries

I posted this somewhere else before... but now i've edited it and think i'm proud enough of it. There's far more to brilliance than we ever hold on to yes its long i know

there are things you expect. then there are things you don't. something i remembered from long ago, when someone left.

i slip my arms around you in a futile gesture for show... first piece of poetry i've spat out in awhile

So it’s dark and for once I'm all for not caring. I'm all for forgetting and letting my hips roll around until there's no tomorrow and my muscles hurt...

You smile at me, barely giving me motive... Just cause there's more passion than reason in us

I'm not back. But it is what I can manage for now. It's not writers block, its losing what makes you write.

I can't say that you hurt me... i can only say sorry. to the boy who tried to make me normal

I dreamt you called me last night and whispered scantily of raw passion and naked limbs...

I know it can't go back to where it was. because where it was, was new... i ramble a bit too much methinks

A list I made a long time ago about someone I thought I'd lost. It's true but I look at it now and wonder where all those wants came from

you were there and it hurt more than that acidic tongue you whipped out far too often...

You stand in the corner/Mourning the loss of a shadow...

written awhile ago, i've only found the heart to post it now. a direct monologue of the stuff going through my head after i was told about a friend having cancer...

Where I am now, in the heat of an Australian summer.. and in the confusion of life...

The story of one's past told by her and absorbed by him... r&r

Something written long ago for a person that's not coming back...r&r

Three short pieces that in my twisted head fit together... Questions, mocking and addiction... r&r

Give me my night on the town... r&r

simple cliched feeling... tell me what you think it is...r&r

A screwed up view of my reality... r&r

some things puzzle more than others...r&r

Written with pure fury in mind and a shaking hand... r&r

What my unseeing eyes now know... and hear r&r

A short piece that came to mind after I realised how times passes and tomorrow comes

short little piece, about feeling. not too proud of it but thought I'd post anyways. r&r

The power of those who pull the strings... r&r

Letters between sisters... r&r

My happiness/Hangs from the curved tips/Of your powerful hands... r&r

Fifteen minute ficlet ranting about love really... R&R

My only source of inspiration in empty days... A single pill taken daily... R&R

All the things you never knew about the others...

A fifteen minute ficlet about coming home...