The Wee Hours

I’ve been writing a lot of midnight oil poetry lately. Maybe it’s the effect of physical exhaustion granting the mind free reign and control (in other words, too tired to be anything but honest). Maybe it’s because I like scribbling words in a pocketbook near a nightlight. Whatever the reason, these poems have been different. Not necessarily of better or poorer quality; it’s just, they’ve been brazen, forthcoming, a little tough, but never harsh. I’m not going to lie—it’s new, surprising, and I kind of like it. The poems may not be as refined in form and structure as some of my other works, but the words shine. It’s dirty, flawed, spontaneous stuff, the way poetry should be when you’re trying to use your heart over your head. I’m never satisfied with my writing, but perhaps I’ll find something to love in this mess of words. Perhaps…

here lies the forest with its insomnia

and gently parted mouth 

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