I’m not dreaming this sense of allegory I’m not imagining this sense of melancholy dark robed figures swing scimitars in grain filled fields of wheat and oats death is in the harvest bloated bodies line the streets no cart, no crier, no relief i can’t…

i. everything happens for a reason, except when it doesn’t ii. only the good die young, do the bad die golden? they usually die as poor writers iii. tragedies happen to good people everyday poets are not usually one of those good people they are…

Purge yourself, Drain the hideous from your soul. Cradle the holy, Allow your words to console. Wring out the fear, Brought on by the flood. When your pen runs out of ink, Refill it with your blood.    

Now, every clock ticks the minutes with the same don’t-go, please-go cadence as the one across from the hospital bed, in the emergency room, at hospice. Even time says its goodbyes.

Parts of me are fully into it the other half is so distant i can’t even hear my pen usually it’s screaming by now am I holding back keeping in…

This is where I come to feel normal. I stand here accusingly looking at angels in the back of a cave. I’m just a normal girl, wish I was just a bit more feminine. I kick at creeping shadows casting spells over the angels. Screaming…

Part V Stuck inside the bunker, I began to scratch my story on the sides of the bunker walls; I simply stated in the essence of dust – THE RAGING POETICS FOUGHT HERE ON THIS DAY… EVERYONE SURRENDERED. – Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 NOON

You haunt my future and sear my soul, with ominous unpleasant doings. I don’t want to acknowledge you But I fail to Ignore you Do I dig in and stay for the revolution? Or do I close my eyes and simply salt my wounds? The…

Forget deep thinking, I am shotgunning poems. I hope something sticks.

Your love unpublished With promise No grace Your face I don’t look anymore The tapping of the piano cords A voice I could not hear The haunting touch A cold kiss The dark a shadow of U….