My Sour Storm (#71)

Sharply stung before my evening block
Chapters fold and shake
My sour storm is wild, free
She poses like an electric feather
Perched on golden stairs
With potential realized
Defenseless ego, my war-torn humble
Lingering ripples shove me off a roof
Unfamiliar concrete
Bleeding, sore
Search for her
Distance kept
While memories leak
From a crack in my head

Effort (#67)

There needs to be effort
For reward
Aristotle is right, so I hate him
Thunderbirds and raptors carve the plum sky
Energy drips through obstacles of terror

Let loose effort
Murder for modern passion
Check previous chapters
For typos and non-typos

Lust balance, string lights on isometric
Digital scenery
Analog doubt
Muddle forth and practice your toss
Before most, she means the most.