He was a Christian, a good old gasoline boy. He jostled over to me, swaggering and telling of what layer of Hell I could end up in.
Free Verse Poetry
Poetry that directly touches base on depression and other mental illness, specifically in women, is what feeds postmodern poetry of the twenty-first century.
I don’t want to be the thing that satisfies you, but only for a moment.
She was the calm to your wild,
the careful to your chaos.
all the doubt that’s kept you up at night
because doubt is the conscience’s defense
and your life
is worth going to battle for.
Love is the moments between wake and sleep, cool body temperatures that spark flames when eyes open. Love is cloudless sky, full of hope and possibility.
I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day,
but bones are stronger once they heal.
I bring passion
into places where there is none. I turn flickers
We are like stars—there’s a chance we might burn out. There’s a chance the universe knows our destiny, knows we’re meant to fade before the light years even reach us.
I want a city kind of love. The kind of love that never stops moving, that’s alive and pulsing with rhythm and energy.