We’re all a tragic story waiting to be written, assuming someone’s so inspired.
A peach pit wastedunder leaves of naked treesas sweater fuzz flies This post was made possible by Ronovan Writes.
I stacked beer cans way too youngto know their effect on you, my designated caretaker, the funniest thing in the roomuntil two shots were firedand sobered the mood.We would mis-reminisce the marks lateras pinhole constellations, we dreamed were painted with... Continue Reading →
Your sigh begets my feigned smile, no notice drawn to the look far beyond our collective current during an enduring unforeseen we’d no time to convene on whether we could weather this storm together or warm to the choice to... Continue Reading →
I witness reflections of life off oceans I often fly by. Zone out at the greatest depths, though marvel most creatures calcified. Pumpkin patches now serve snow cones which help me forget warming woes. But plants adrift across the sea... Continue Reading →
I stood awkwardly in the janitor's closet of my therapist's office for a few minutes before working up the nerve to leave. I was worried that the foundation of positive thinking stitched together in the last 55 minutes could be tangled,... Continue Reading →
I bled on the snow for six blocks until I embraced the unnatural chill at my ungloved tip, followed by a pulse I imagine in moments like this. To think it must be sealing just as quickly as the sound in my mind. It's not, so I... Continue Reading →
When I was a bird, I found seed beyond all of my wildest needs. But it's turned colder, the babes are older. I haven't sunflowers to feed. I always thought suitable mates were those who could talk with big gaits.... Continue Reading →
Sirens resounding, 2 AM a bottle breaks. Locks are checked again.
the Periodic Writer 
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