Again With the Literary Clique


What's Right Is Write

A few unnamed pieces that needed a group home, so to speak.

I stuffed my life into three boxes,
changed the locks on all the doors,
emptied out the hallway closets,
tossed the lit match on the floor,
hurried to my packed car waiting,
looked back just in time to see,
flames exploding and creating
ash of all my history.

Whats the sense in running
when your legs are made of steel?
You’ll get no where fast, my dear
and tire out before your problems catch up,
You say you’ve no support
For the problems that exist
But I’ve been here all along, my dear
Waiting patiently, content, inside your mind
Reminding you that you haven’t been alone for a long time

Combed over in exhaustion,
his eyes burned from deprivation,
the rest he craved wouldn’t be found,
as the need to survive weighed more dire.
Late nights overdosed on…

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