Shattered Glass Dance

Keep Your Darlings — This is an anthem for the weirdos like me — the wild and free unabashedly loving what they see in the strange terrain of their crowded, fantastic brain. Let the world squawk their warnings kill your heroes keep your darlings Make it a dance, avoiding their arrows and propaganda’s stomping…

10,000 poems — 1 story. — A poetic suggestion would tickle my nips. And I must admit — I’m a little bit into it. A butterfly breath of gentle reprise; enough to tease — and scream, COME PLAY WITH ME Who me? Eyes wide, I point to my chest. Didn’t you suggest that we invest in rest…

Time to hold your kid-brain’s hand. — Adulting is nothing more than becoming our own parents. I don’t mean turning into your parents, I mean taking over the job now that they’re off the hook. Because when we pick off all the crusted BS we’ve caked around our sensitive cores, we discover the hard truth: It’s…

We Are Poetry — You are me. The confidence and fears, the charm and hidden tears. Your paint is bright, your smile fun, you bring the best outta everyone but you. Because you are me. And we are scared. Of everything. You are me. And we don’t ask for much — some space some health A warm, safe…

Question everything. — In between on pause? no teeth no claws no sleep no sheep to count on no help from beyond. But still I dream — and so it seems… the Sandman still shapes my urge, my aches even when I’m awake. follow wormwood for periodic weird.

Maniacal — — You met me when I was manic. I didn’t think anyone would love me — could love me — when I wasn’t. Mania brings out the best and worst of me Saturation turned on high Hey! Look @ me! Watch me fly! watch me dip watch me spin around n’flip …

Pardon me… — Derailed by eye contact now aware I’m taking up space a violent, magnetic force snapping into place. Am I right, or wrong to stare? Too long maybe — but too consumed to care. Seconds feel like years how long have we been standing here? Words tumble from your lips but I…

…is coming. — Something wicked brews behind a curtain of rotting clouds; darkness blooming in their bowels… Voices riding the wind wiggle in and tickle sense: concepts too dim to underpin — but sharp enough to pickle your skin. Something wicked brews… something within. follow wormwood for periodic weird.