Perhaps the hairpin pupil of a child’s eye,is where all the lost things go to hide,burrowed back in the folds,of underdeveloped matter,in a squishy skull,soft down hair spattered,in our moments of regression,it’s shame that burns our eyes,and blinds our senses,So then all things lost,live in the foggy memory of our evolution,the grey landscape we can’t…

There are those who carry worlds within, walking obituaries,unable to place,unable to recollect,names which might codicil reason.Their aversions and tendenciesall cross-haired into a mad conglomerate,at sixes and sevens, they wander.Arms splayed,to catch walls and deflect voices,screaming reminders of who they were,before they left,before they leapt,God said they wouldn’t make it into heaven.And there are those,stein-eyed…

Pre-dawn pink,eyelids like anvils,in Autumn. Featured Download: If you would like a resource to help you write poetry like “Insomnia,” CLICK HERE.

Yellow popcorn curls and June bugs, girls named June and May and April too. Southern summers smell of 1950’s funnel cakes and fast boys, faster cars and jars of strawberry jam. Brown skin kissed by boat dock bruises and cool evenings on porches older than plantations — haunted like them too. Drive-ins with Bobby and…