Since World War II, we have been a nation that said we were a home for the outcast. It has been our identity in the world; it has been our beacon, a figurative idea made literal by the statue of Lady Liberty that stands roughly 5 miles from where I type this. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
You murmur your poems in a hall of doors and mirrors and I strain to hear. Your voice barely carries
A Repost. "My Left Shoe" was originally published in Waterhouse Review. Ryan Gosling’s left shoe is made of gold and dipped in chocolate and if sold will save the orphanage. My left shoe is worn through the heel and reeks of chicken grease and stagnant mop water and if I were an orphan I’d think … Continue reading My Left Shoe
It’s not okay to be in love. It’s, in fact, a very dangerous thing. I’d recommend you avoid it, but it’s not much of a choice, is it? You know how the girls are...
Tunnels fill and tunnels whistle with the passing of trains from Manhattan to Brooklyn, carrying doctors, patients, lovers and lusters, in expectant hesitation and anxious calculation
You never did and you never will again.
I could never fall asleep with a book on my chest. I have a hard enough time turning off my senses