When I write to you

it is not borne of

delusions of grandeur,

it is not, for instance

that I want to hear

my words from your

mouth, or anyone elses

if everyone thought like

me, we’d be in a whole

new kind of hell

probably a worse one

because when I bomb my

life, I bomb hard.

No,

I just want to say

what I feel

compelled to say

if the world around me

is any indication

writing is a dying art

and reading is fast

on it’s heels as well

and even if I

am not skilled at it

there feels something

noble in the attempt

and as fleeting and

sparse as the inspiration

might be

it refuses to let itself

Please subscribe to keep reading.