Postcards

Wrote this from december 15th, 2020 to january 15th, 2021.

TW: It Sits (p34-38) and The False Star (p39-40) contain disturbing imagery, violence and gore.

Not all of them are there.

I enjoy writing poems. They might be weird, and they might not be good, but they're made of me, and very mundane stuff. There's one about a pile of soda cans that were sitting on my desk.

It's a view of our world as if it was a far-away place. It's a view of how I feel as if it was a landscape. It's a view of me as if I wasn't from here. This is all true.

This is the story of how I escaped the swamps. It's a work in progress.

Please be kind to the ants under your skin, the spiders in your ceiling, and the birds in your walls.

Comments, feedback and stray thoughts up for adoption are welcome.