Terminal

The end is near. Many ends to choose from: a bomb, the zombies, the calendar. With endings, there must be beginnings. So there’s hope, but still an end. It looms on the horizon, stalks in the shadows. Will we know, be aware of its approach? Do we even want to know? Would I rather sleep

How I became a poet

Words are kind of my thing, I write, I talk, and yet, I never was a poet. I always felt too tight, bottled up, what if the words were wrong? What if they didn’t flow, or fit, or rhyme? What if they weren’t perfect? Perfection was my Great Wall of China, Impressive in the middle,