I am a poet which means I stand in the shower and think the water is too hot and shift the faucet-thing to the right only to be blasted by cold reality into a sniveling shriveling carapace shouting silent expletives that crash cheap tile with all the force of metaphor.
No sugar in the tea. It's today's enemy (like cigarettes and nostalgia and eggs). So what? Now I get to outlive joy?
More poems here. (Some are not fun, but maybe you’re in the mood?)
And yes, there are stories. But they are not fun. They are real.