i do not speak with forked tongue yet you damn me a demon paint my hands blood red cut me black diamond hard innocent misunderstanding?
poetry is oft written by those who love too much too freely hearts splayed open on sterile dissection trays cool stainless pins trapping vulnerable fluttering
haunted hours when my ghosts emerge from the ether waltz in slow rotation through my memory music only they can hear skeletal orchestra backside of
Find yourself at home with unexpected time on your hands? It’s a great day to read Heavy Mental, Kindra M. Austin‘s brilliant new poetry book.
woke up wrong side of the bed all pins and needles and porcupine quills thunder and lightening brewing under my skin as throbbing nerves at
my image splinters in the mirror as distance grows between surface smooth and inner truth where sharp rocks agitate in the acid bath of my
sleep stalks me, finds me an easy target slinks in to drag me under, into the depths where unknown dangers lurk in my unconscious what
darkness washes over me spilled black ink viscous puddles on my skin like oxygen-rich blood iron-tinged air darkness an icy breath on the back of
open one eye clock tells woeful tale I overslept again sit slowly so room doesn’t spin drunk-stagger to dress lean my back against wall to