Author Information
Sometimes We Write
Sometimes all that's left is a metaphor...
Sometimes we're drunk on love.
Sometimes we spill the wine.
Sometimes you're gaining in the race.
Sometimes the world just... passes you by...
I'd hold a grudge
but it melts right through my clench
in the light of what my temporal
mortality
should address.
Sometimes we mumble one-third truths,
jacking off our thoughts into pots
better left for humble bread.
Sometimes we stain our sustenance like that,
spoil our rations like us,
malnourished priorities.
No wonder some scream God is dead.
Sometimes we keep to ourselves
ignoring the hand that held us
when we were alone.
Sometimes we're cocky like that
and it crumbles humanity
an extra chip.
Sometimes poets camp out under the stars
to absorb a glow to their pens.
Sometimes that's as selfish
as it gets...
