Bridge Ant Existence.

The best part about being a writer? There isn’t one. The worst part? Ditto. Writing is writing is writing is writing. Its just what I do, and really, anyone could do it.

#11

 

We can only blame

ourselves

for this dark,

pissy,

bridge ant

existence

 

All pawns,

selfishly falling

into the abyss

of tomorrow,

all too blanketed

by the past,

and ignorant to

the

“here and now”

 

 

go, go, go

tomorrow calls,

it will be accomplished,

yes,

tomorrow,

go, go, go

you fools,

into the abyss

of an infinitely coming

tomorrow.

 

#12

 

Autumns pulchritude

awoke a longing for

solitude and

nature

like no other season,

a season marking the

transition

between

flourish,

and death.

 

A brilliant flash of colors,

before everything turns white.

It is truly the fall,

a concept some men

spend far too little time

facing,

for everything is cyclical,

and man to

shall face his seasons.

 

#13

 

I must decide-

live as my forbearers did,

unknown,

unfucked,

and trapped.

Nothing really changing,

except for perhaps

the geography

and the names of people

 

or,

live as a star, brilliant,

and lively,

and remembered

long after

the thing

dies.

 

#???

 

we all just want someone

we can say that we love,

and know,

or at least think,

that they love us too

but,

there is a place in our hearts

that will remain

unfulfilled,

 

a yearning,

eternally

unfulfilled.

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