kundalini

I guess I should've brought my shit to the bar last night. The judges were surprisingly kind, much more so than I would've been... I can hang with those guys. I'm starting to think my poems aren't so bad after all.

On that note...

My breath sounds like the wind
in Winter
and my hands cracked
with white
pale lines from fingertips
tell my life story
twenty-nine years gone by
too fast
more lines and cracks
than someone twice my age
my hands lie
and my breath sounds like the wind
in winter



I'm back from the gym and shit...
I had a hard time going out this morning... Does anyone else ever just feel like lying somewhere dark in a fetal position for no real reason....?


And here's another honest question for anyone who reads this and has a favorite author or poet. Do you like everything your favorite writer does? Are there some stories or poems from your person that just don't really make it in your eyes? I'm curious about such things...