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This is excellent. But Earl Gray is gross. >.

words read as "undefined" and indifferent (listed through bloodless lips and prayers, the clench of an aching jaw--but continue) we can find meaning in the sounds and tear philosophy away ...

DAY XII Lying somewhere in between our frailties and clasped hands (a broken cross on her chest from a careless priest) there were dying days and beds carved from oak.

DAY XI I know these are crap--sorry. Wrote em straight into here. Sometimes I forget who I am in the gaze (haze) of smoke and in pools of amber (like ...

DAY X Sıppıng aırpor beer and coats go off ınto conveyor belts so they can look at your ınsıdes and determıne whether you are pure; there are chemıcals ın the ...

Day IX I don't have much time between packing, finding myself a bathing suit, and flying so... here are three unfinished little stanzas. I know. I'm a failure. (These may ...

Dsar stepped forward and placed her hand on the bar, surprising herself with the vehemence she felt. The girl from the tavern was crouched on a solitary stool in the ...

hoarse dreams and honey coated words strung along my teeth like fluoride, like cavities pulsing in and out and eating away at my letters before I can even say them; ...

Hey there dregy! I'm sorry that you haven't been getting the reviews that you want. There are a lot of different ways you can get your name out there though! ...

Granted; your head is gone as well. I wish that I could find a topic to write on.

"Ducks!" iridescent with oil and lamplight, ink is in their feathers like blood is in our veins and they stroke with feet in careful patterns. (this letter goes this way ...

tap-tap-tap comes the knocking on my door; tap-tap-tap beats the echoing reply, and i realise that I knew all along, my heart is missing, probably long gone stolen by prickly ...

Day VIII (shot number two with catharsis) we press frail hands to our lungs, slowly pulling oxygen to the air and twisting the muscles of our diaphragm like laundry, drained ...

This: omen robins red as hatchet-swings their color struggling through snow like ford-horses, slow stemless gathered darkened hearts i'm surprised they haven't burst to flame yet or melted to a ...

"Yearning to Purge" Six month catharsis: you feel it tug right above your navel, spare and white, and you pull back at the stars with greedy, burnt fingers, wondering when ...