the ugly writers

A Murder Of Reality

An unkindness in the lure a conspiracy craving more I cannot adapt, I’m sure! in this insanity I adore the murder of the flock the hands of the ticking clock I cannot tell if this is reality or if it’s not
i don't mean to brag the ugly writers

I Don’t Mean To Brag

Poetry flowed out of me. I could hardly contain it.  Even if I wanted to. I wasn't sleeping well at the time, I was working through a lot of emotions and feelings and all those teenage woes made great food for fodder. I wrote about relationships with my parents, with friends, with boys. I wrote about a relationship that needed to cease.