sitting here at lamp light

im wondering what im writing and why im trying

why even try to put words to intangible things

conceited belief that what i have to say is relatable or new

looking for writing contests

when the contest is only with the self

and embarrased to even write a line like that

but i learned in art class not to erase but to

be more concerned with the INITIAL

but whats the point of art class when this is not something that can be TAUGHT

its just experiences, right?

didn't hemingway teach us that? it is pretentious to bring up

sad, dead authors that died for their work when

im sitting here by horse-lamp, writing things nobody will read

drinking things to give me the boldness i need to commit things

to words that are only half-felt...

temporary happiness

two dogs asleep

unaware and insignificant

in the issues of people

dramatic decisions as

their feet twitch simultaneously

when life gives you lemons

you wake up in the morning again

they're on the bedside table

but you've already opened your eyes

you're awake again,

the alarm goes off

and you move from your sheets...

The moon passes across the sun as does doubt cross in front of my belief in my self.

I've been worried lately about something

hard to define, a suspension of self

in the sky; battery and darkness.

I want to be eclipsed, temporarily,

and left in the shadow of something small,

but still a part of me. Unrestrained

to live out these fantasies. To be alone

and unchaste; resigned to the moon

in my heart, I want to be corrupted.