it's a dead world for the unliving

talking about writers or sitting in the corner writing

the great virtue red

the same applies to writing

so easily you dust off your magick

I already put the camera into storage

the many wishes you get from the genie in the lantern

grow teeth and claws red

writers work with words and voices

don't succumb too quickly to her embrace

slip with a broken neck to the ground

he performs with an underwhelming lack of sequence

he never finishes his novel

somewhat the same situation

precisely what you are not

hitting the block, unable to write

then it hits you

this was the basis of every error

preferring not to wait for the infirmities of age

a town filled with the vaguely disreputable

everything for sale and no buyers

in the dry fountain of an empty town square

a spaceship is where you find it

she was expecting someone other than me

at one time he was a private investigator

little winds stirring papers on school desks

find an empty space and ease into it

the newer evacuation plan

writing this poem out of sequence

the pieces can be had in any order

driven to apply similar measures

visual impact immediate

for the flow of traffic

this is completely meaningless statement

the intensity of my emotions are fading

he sits up straighter and swings his legs off the couch

no one knew when it might return

age 16 & pretending to read

I am writing a bestseller

writers are rich and famous

war un ranted

low scale

words unobservable dirty

this sheds light

a mere aspect of the ultimate

you have always been without eyes

rooted in sorrow at every level

aware of the evolution

a gift for enchantment magick

the devil generates his own reality