Warmth emanates from

the singular chimney

Housed within the heart

Of a drafty mansion

It’s where the deer go

To lie upon rickety floorboard

As sparrows acquaint themselves

With the abandoned rocking chair

Preening their worries away

Serenity melded with serendipity

The course of the universe

Ivy stretching over bricks

Decomposition of matter

And the soul

The Struggle for Originality

I found myself knee deep in poetry

Not knowing which direction to go

I settled, staying ’neath nonexistent leaves

Telling myself I’ll remain

Until the frost becomes much too cold—

Then, I could write of my

Fucking goddamn depression

Bass drop

It’s three o’clock in the morning

And I’ve been kissing individual framed photos

In my shrine of Poe Whitman Plath

I harbor such a pretentious heart

I could not bear to part with mediated prose

(Man these tumblr poets

And their penchant for simplistic thought)

—I’ve drunk so much irony in my tea

I can no longer taste its potent punch

I am so well-versed in the craft,

All my alliteration attempts are absolutely art

My words are like stars, night, dewdrops, love, eyes, the sunskyandmoon

I can write so fresh, I’ll write of farts

I’ve nothing to prove, nothing to lose

Whether I rhyme or not—

Conform or not—

There is nothing to gain

In being a contrarian.