Coyotes hunt in packs, and so do assholes.

All I can do is lie here, brain turning somersaults. It's nights like these when memories stir, whipping themselves into stiff peaks of pain.

Or might the soul clone itself, create a perfect imitation of something yet to be defined? In this way, can a reflection be altered?

Eyes Tell Stories But do they know how to craft fiction? Do they know how to spin lies? His eyes swear forever, flatter with vows of only me. But are they empty promises? I stare into his eyes, as into a crystal ball, but I cannot find forever, only movies of yesterday, a sketchbook of today, dreams of a shared tomorrow. His eyes whisper secrets. But are they truths or fairy tales? I wonder if even he knows.

I write poetry anyway and have for years and years. For me, putting fiction and poetry together is like the best of both worlds.

I think parents should know what their children are reading, and if they truly object, they should tell their kids why, rather than summarily removing a book from their possession.

Your hurt swallows ine, like space swallows time, and the two intertwine. We tangle together.