|Taken up near Mt. Hood in Oregon.|
ChokingThe splash of the water hits his tired face. Reaching blindly behind him for a towel, he grabs a hairbrush, dries his face and combs his hair, noticing how dirty it is. (I should’ve washed it last night. It’s all gross today)Choking by smokedragon
The light flickers, temporary darkness itching his brain.
Stepping out into the cold industrial atmosphere of the outside world, he looks up and around him, a drop of rain hitting his forehead. Walking down the busy streets, taking in the everyday bustle of the cars passing, people yelling over the traffic noise, the man at the newspaper stand busy restocking various magazines and publications, a fresh stack of the Times sitting out in front. Across the street the boys tending the opening fruit market walking in and out of the rows with miserable expressions, dreaming of comic books, bubblegum and that girl in the second row of science class. He can see his breath as it snakes out of his mouth, disappearing, diesel fumes and exhaust stinging his eyes.
|One of the things you will learn about me at some point is that my luck with life is less than great. Most of my poetry is really dismal. Somehow, despite that, these days I'm usually a pretty happy person. I suppose it could be said that perhaps once I accepted the fact that misfortune and chaos seem to find me, and let it go, I stopped caring about it so much, and that made being happy easier. Sure, I have my moments where I'm all aggro or hiding under a blanket in a dark room with old black and white horror movies, but I seem to adapt to things for the most part. Photography seems to be my favorite thing to do lately, and I'm enjoying it a lot.|