Sunkissed

The pallor of my skin mocks me.

I miss the sun’s feverish kisses

On my brow until its touch burns.

The pain means I am loved.

Mania

I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight

Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical

And I love and I love

And I give and I give

Until like like a well loved toy

My skin is worn thin

And my entrails spill out from the seams.

And the pounding ratatatat tattoo

of my heart whipped into frenzy

is calmed by the panicked coda

of my hyperventilations.

We all have our lows.

No Rest For the Wicked

Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high,
brain bubbles like a percolator on speed,
firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake,
inciting me to violent turns of phrases,
penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched.

They say to hide one's light under the bushel is a sin,
and this must be my punishment.
No rest for the wicked.

Knock Knock Jokes, or Writer's Block Haiku

Knock Knock Jokes

(Writer's Block Haiku)

knock knock- who's there? what

do you call a writer who

never writes? a joke.