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They will be everywhere soon!

If you’re itching to level up, I’ll be over here setting things on fire. You’ve been warned.

If who you were survives who you’re becoming, you’re still stalling.

I’ve tried to write perfect things when honest ones would’ve done. They strangle me as I write. The voice dies. The breath stops. When I write to succeed, I know it’s trash. Every pause leans toward applause. Yet no one’s watching.

“I’d rather be broken open in the forest than intact and dead among the living.”

Most people think they’re asking for help. But what they’re really doing is begging to be saved from the one thing they refuse to face.

Tiny yellow mushrooms crack through the dead log beneath me. Action.
I write to stay off the grooved path.
Unsettled, and not looking to be settled. Raising the stakes is only the way not to stagnate.
If I live, it should cost me something.

My attention is beat by anything that doesn’t sweat.
I cannot read unless it burns.
If you’ve protected the reader, you’ve hid from yourself. Across the pond, the water ripples, then fades. The sky appears.
The crow call nags at my ear. It wants action…