Fire stone

So I'm a poor writer.

A choice no one else can see I've made. In fact, my writing is so bad, I prefer it to be called a habit I cannot control... to write bad poetry.

I feel deserted, no more then anyone else in the history of mankind.

So why not just bake these words in the oven and let them roast.

Let the ones that think they see me, juvinile, childlike, and make roasted peanuts. Tossing marshmellows into an otherwise flaming cauldron.

The mystery about myself is being alone.

And I hate it.


Yesterday night, I was at the fringe. I petted a horse, and I swore that the horse turned to connect with me. His large neck, reaching around to acknowledge the horse whisperer next to him.


Then I went to the Empire.


At the bar, I saw my friends. I shared a good time.


And, I'm positively past my age. Ahead of my time.