for the most part, I have a working-class love of words,
accessible in the madness of the morning,
or a mild midnight in the middle of the month of May.
The end product is another modern noir man,
aggressive in stance, but not moving towards anger,
with storytelling leaning too hard on verbal exposition,
but with self-aware existentialism that stinks of garlic.
I am strongest when diving into the rare heart
of what clearly sparked my imagination in the first place,
which is and always will be the stories of people I meet,
mixed with my own selfishly hopeful imagination.
Like a knife softly riding the jugular,
we all have nights that are meant for more than memory,
where the pen cuts the tree down itself and forces your hand,
at least that is what happens to me on most morrows.