>> Finally working on posting around the internet my more recent series of poems. This was my first one in the 100 poem/short story collection called The Bitter Months. This is the one I'm least proud of.

Trip me up little marks, with your blooming firework blues, lined in your green shades, yellow tinges adding your depth and swallowing pain.
Follow those circles, path marks made within a field of fair hairs and cream colored skin, created in those moments -- moments hard to speak of when they pass, taking a second to back away after the attack, to loom as red-eyed nightmare monsters within the hiding places, not so unlike the beasts we feared as children.
Wide and gaping, teeth clacking in the shivers breaking up the silence as the downbeat, bones clacking, breaking the silence between the contact of crumpled pieces.

Written on my hands, old stories of diet-pill comas spread richly over a black pleather bound book, beating down the old reoccurring thoughts of the decrepit subjects that hover within my words, their famous quill tipped, red dipped messages growing brown with age.
Despite it - I'm still suffering within it, all the while losing what I once prided myself on.