I’m not crying by the railroad tracks, you’re crying by the railroad tracks.

I’m experimenting with writing poetry that is outside of what I normally do.  IE shorter, and different stanzas.  I don’t know.  I don’t really know how to write poetry, but I’m still okay with how this turned out.

Vulnerability is sometimes
And often amounts to
Violence
At least with you

While love is the lie
We tell ourselves
To justify our cannibal appetites

Shining teeth and sharp claws
Your hand on mine and a smile
Look me in the eye

Scratch my back
While we sharpen our knives
Hit the lights

And slip inside
When the morning light
Creeps through the blinds

I guess we’ll see
Which one of us survives
I think I might have mentioned

Right at the start of this mess
I do my best to be good
But I’m not nice.

I’m not crying by the railroad tracks, you’re crying by the railroad tracks.

Written on Halloween, in Asheville.

Personal stuff and day to day stuff, school work, and work work have kept me away from maintaining this blog as much as I’d like lately.  I’m publishing this.  It doesn’t feel totally finished.  It’s yet another goodbye to my former home in North Carolina.  One day, I’ll be free of the curse of Asheville.

I left this place
Two years to the day
Prairie thunder and countless
Thousands of breaths breathed away
We write our names in the sand
(All over again)
To have them washed away by the rain
We poured out our prayers
And held fast to our waning days
Like they were ever meant to last
While every single thing to which we cling
Gets ripped right from our hands

Two years to the day
Gone and back again
With the sky aching with rain
The French Broad swells
With blood and soul to be paid
(All over again)
This fucking place is the weight
Of crushing darkness
In old houses, far too late at night
Coming straight down on my chest
Rushing in to snatch every rasping breath

Two years to the day
Tonight this place feels
Just like all hell
Come home to snap at my heels
(All over again)
There is a lesson to be learned
About the curse we called home
And about walking this world alone
Until the maggots come
And this place will
Never again be your home
No matter how much you long
For it to blow the grime out of your lungs
Fill the hole in your soul
Or breathe life back into your bones

IMG_6469

Written on Halloween, in Asheville.