Bukowski was not a great person. But reading Portions from a Wine Stained Notebook affected me a lot.
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All in Poetry
Bukowski was not a great person. But reading Portions from a Wine Stained Notebook affected me a lot.
I often prefer a good story to any kind of news reporting, when the bias is made obvious and honest it feels easier to find the truth.
I often feel like once something blooms it just doesn’t need me anymore so that’s how I treat my relationships. Most of my plants die unfortunately.
Sometimes it feels like a day is a circle trying to meet itself on the other side. Stretching in both directions to touch.
Today I don’t like my body, and I’m too broken for others (like really), and I don’t like this poem but I needed to write it right now and posting it immediately is sharing that brokenness in a way that feels good.
Jack (coworker (and friend)) is one of the more interesting people I know. One time we had a conversation like this:
“Did you get those shoes at DSW?”
“Yes. Why?”
“They look like cheap shoes.”
He was so proud of himself for that.
I often write a short, quick poem to give to Jack (coworker) every day at work.
Sometimes I am more excited about showing off new earrings than I am about trying to make the world a better place.
Mrs. Emma wanted me to post this so I did!
Sorry I’m not keeping up with the site. I should tease the book more. Instagram is HOT though
Of these 4 categories I keep switching between single and alone. And sometimes hermit in the lurch.
Is your cup half empty or half full? Or too full? Or not cold enough or not hot enough or not sweet enough or not pretty enough or not kind enough or not successful enough or not
I’m trying to publish a book of poetry so I haven’t been uploading all the content I am creating. To try and fix that, I am creating these little gimmicky things like Quick Bites or Four Lines. I hope the rules to this one are self evident.
Quick Bites are 10 minute poems, whatever I have down when the timer goes off gets published.
People keep making fun of me for cautioning technology but screens become the means through which we think.
Turns out the bird in storm made land, unplanned, and the love letter has made my heart better.
Hypocrisy abounds in telling others to reach out while you yourself don’t make a sound.
When the nasty inner echo chamber gets too loud and doubtful, I scream with my hands into a page and this is such a mouthful