My own crooked fingers,
Painting words and truths,
Guiding them from a scarred and broken mind,
Onto paper where they can,
Breathe,
And either thrive on creative inspiration,
Or wither away dehydrated from not enough words,
Or float away bloated from too many shallow phrases,
In a sea of false starts,
And black and white,
And confusing truths that make no sense,
But form stanzas and verses nevertheless,
Where does the writer fit into the puzzle?
Are we observers?
Are we just people watching life unfurl around our sorry faces,
Daring to create some meaning,
From nothing,
Or,
Are we just people,
Slowly falling through the cracks,
With nobody to catch us before we hit the ground.

Poetry



Makes Us












Bleed.