Kindra Austin cuts us with the knife of loss.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

I’m running out of poetry; your Absence is a burglar of words and rhythm. You’re the one who’d always told me to write my heart out. Just write, baby girl. Tell me, how am I supposed to cope with the loss of my goddamned verses? Who am I, if not a writer?


I wandered way down cobblestone,

deep in fog exhaled from lungs.

Mourning mind preoccupied,

my flitting feet followed instinct—

landed me at Dimwit dive-bar,

Old Town.


I ended up supping a ginny Gin Rickey.


in the nook at the

billiards table, a beatnik boy-toy of

Nimoy stature floated me a

hawk-eye look; affixed a fag to

his bottom lip, and

I just knew he was the type who


Wuthering fucking Heights.


What comes next? I have an idea, but can’t seem to execute it. I’ve been staring at this piece of shit for…

View original post 169 more words

Categories: Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s