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the town had just come into view as the western sky turned a brilliant blue he pulled up alongside a prickly pear lit up a stogie and rested his mare how long will this beauty last he'd wonder the calm was hushed by distant thunder no time to dawdle as the blue went gray it's rollin' in fast best be on our way the echoes roll in the western...

They gnaw at the edges of me, little sharp-toothed things with hollow eyes, crawling from the cracks in my skull to lap at the marrow of my thoughts. I used to fight them. I used to starve them. But hunger makes them cruel. So now I lay the table. Silver plates of regret, goblets brimming with old wounds, a banquet of memories too raw...

I keep a spine that bends toward fairness, and every time I straighten it, the doorway shrinks. "your disrespect borders apathy" dictations of trouble scribbled into me. In truth, I notice the weight placed on backs already tired, the hours that leak past daylight, the pay that never learns to grow. So I’m released again— another quiet box for...

“After all we’ve been through, It can’t be over, you must keep going” One said as a partner grew Colder, with a contented smile of knowing He grabbed a hand and said “It’s okay for the journey to be over, That’s the best part, because That’s when you can start a new one, Rest a moment, then see what’s next” A tear fell, and words quivered “I...

Shackles cast of steel Held by ball and chain Heaving with my shame A pretense of a shield Stench of failure, unclean Decay chanting its creed Encased, the coffin is sealed I claw and try to scream To demons I forcibly kneel Fraying and tearing at seams Body bitter and maimed “Spare yourself and yield” “No!” Shouts a soul...

You may not be able to see me, but that does not mean I am no longer here. You may not be able to touch me, but that does not mean I am gone forever. The physical world may know me to be dead, but I am, in truth, very much alive – more alive, in fact, than I have ever been, In ways that you do not understand. You think that I am unaware of how...

They call her a voice of brown pain, But we’ve heard louder cries, from fields soaked in sacrifice, from mothers who buried sons, not metaphors. They sold us short, for lowercase lines and over-capitalized lies— as if formatting could mask the absence of truth. She speaks of lands she never walked, names wounds she never bore, calls for borders...