Tag Archives: Reading

The Reader


I long for worlds I have never seen.

I am weak with nostalgia for people I’ve never met.

I grieve, broken from the loss of an imaginary friend.

I am giddy at the prospect of pretending to meet these nonexistent loved ones again.

A show every Friday night at seven.

New chapter release on the first of the month.

The game comes out in time for Christmas.

I am fulfilled, thrilled, excited

I laugh, fight, cry, fall in love, win, lose,


Able to forget

For a brief span of time

That this adventure too must end

And I will be faced

With the dead air

The closed book

The black screen

And unforgiving reality.














The Writer


Touch my hand

I will transport you

No more real world

No more problems

Be someone else now

Feel what they feel




Isn’t it comfortable

Living vicariously

Isn’t it soothing

To watch someone else suffer

Guilt free

To spy on them in bed

To leer at their relationships

To know all their private jokes

To feel them holding hands

To watch them hurt each other

To watch them hurt themselves

Doesn’t it feel good

To be helpless

To be God














Poetry can be boring.

But every once in a while

A poem cuts right through the fog

Grips your collar

Forces you to pay attention.

A good poem

Runs through you like a trickle of ice water.

A good poem

Is fleet and cannot be caught.

A good poem

Creeps quiet like ivy

Until it coats the inside of your mind

And you are besotted.

A good poem

Leaves a mark where it touched you

Red like a new bruise

Red like a lipstick kiss