Writing

sewing soft stitches in unnerved unsteady lines 
still new at old practices, still young as the thread winds 
around a needle’s head, through the almost-fabric like 
skin. 

The fluids are slushing through my veins, 

Creeping through my blood, through my thoughts, 

Through each word I speak. 

A random Stranger saw me smiling in a cafe and took a picture of me

A nice one at that

For weeks, that Stranger would follow me home at night 

Cards are slapped down,

Hands meet over the pile,

Words that sound like hate from an outside ear,

Sound like love to me.

A flabbergasting victory,

Seldom a sorrow filled loss,

We, 

Humanity, 

Failed; 

We allowed,

All knowledge, 

All language, 

T0 be lost; 

Be better than us, 

Do not follow the dumb, the rich, the bias, 

Why is it raining.

I would rather be fishing. 

Wednesdays are long.