writer’s laminate

“If writing’s what you love to do, then do it and don’t ever stop doing it. Because the only thing we’ll ever have is what we love.” – Cole K.

Yet I find myself

lost, wondering about my

own merit. Gauging my

success with a flawed metric.


Success should be derived from

accomplishments, feats of independence

not from the opinions of others.

Even still, our humanity requires

comparisons to be made–

from one soul to the next

we encompass each other

as if eclipses of some divine



the pen moves itself across the page

and the writers scrawl sentences

partly their own and partly something else’s


and we sit astonished as our government

carpet bombs, paying cadets to walk in circles,

while we shoulder the weight of debt–

most of us six figures in the hole


and stanzas are strewn about intermittently

vastly unrelated to one another–

for the most part anyways


But our kitchen is the heart

of this culmination of cultures,

beating beneath the rhythms of our music,

noticeable only in the still hours–

a white noise seldom appreciated.

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