Tag Archives: life

Dirty Stop Out – a poem

Dirty Stop Out

Left you

In your bed.

Smell of you;

Easily led.

Pizza slice

On my way out;

Rolling dice,

& messing about.

Crunch on snow

to where I stay.

Consequences flow—

Come what may.

Netflix chill

Just another night

Might not fill

What I fight.

AEW

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Twiku: December By Text

IMG_1035.jpgPlans made,
Plans broken,
Plans interrupted,
By text.

As you had no time
For me
I no longer
Have
Time
For you.

You started this.
I am
Ending
It.

A.E.W.


Frosted Out- A poem

 Frosted Out

My window is frosted in winter’s lace.

Keeping sun’s warmth right off my face,

(Your silence is worse than this frosty place)

To move is my only remedy.

I warm my hands at the fireplace

In hope to thaw out love’s entropy.

 

You ghosted me, you gave me space;

Most likely filled my empty place.

(Who fits the things in your drawer, the lace?)

O! These are not words of jealousy.

The attachment ripped where there is no trace

Since I always knew your inconsistency.

 

All friends show they are of two-face,

The one for me and the one that is base.

You keep my army in a black case

(and convicted to your own fallacy)

Deny you ever gave me chase.

I release our supposed synchronicity.

By A.E. Wallace


A November Poem on the Ubiquitous Quiet & Death of Love

Chance of Clouds

There is a sun out there, I know.

Potentially it can be warm, I know.

But the clouds are too heavy,

The clouds are too grey,

The clouds just keep being

in the way.

There is a smile there, I know.

Potentially there can be laughter.

But the clouds are too heavy,

The clouds are too grey,

The clouds just keep getting

in the way.

There is love there, I know.

Potentially times can be better.

But the clouds are too heavy,

The clouds are too grey,

The clouds just make me

want to stay away.


By AEW


Haiku- Last Minute 2016

fear

Unbearable noise,

Cyclone ripping through our mirth.

Another Sun dawns.

–AEW


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #12

wpid-2013-11-28-10-09-08_deco.jpg

“In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you”

Cook, baby. Cook! Fire up that old stove and magic the ingredients together. Work the creation into a culinary batch of divine intervention. Fill the pan with life and love– with before–with now–with someday. Sprinkle in more of that “we-will-be-the-always-and-forever” of songs, baby. Spice it up with so much hope and glory that we sit there at the table, grinning at each other, basking in the afterglow of recipe conception. For you and I are the gods of gastronomic design. Our universe swirls with the passion that sizzles and fizzles in the drop of olive oil. Lush and iniquitously large measures are for the living; to hell with the consequences. The future is now and we are hungry.


Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #7

image

“Blow as deep as you want to blow”

Smoker, sinner, gambler, ho. It is none of these that are in the know, yo. But to blow. Deep. Sink into the unconventional vat of real self and swim for your life or die trying. There is nothing worse than regret. Inhale deep–keep–feel–then out slow and pass the pipe, figuratively speaking.

Saturday morning. Wake up still in my black dress from last night. Still in bed as I write and wish I could magic up a cup of tea. Laughing out loud because I know I drunk texted, drunk called, drunk sang and I do not need to hurl…this girl was in control through all the i love yous last night. This girl was deep and true. This girl was her own and her own was me.


(CALIATH)

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