Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
They make me feel… Insecure, angry, inadequate, on edge, like they’re going to throw me under the bus any second, shameful, sad, pathetic and so many other things I should not write here.
By Rowan Finley 2 years ago in Poets
War of the the rooms Loomed Chase of the night Sighting Man scooped her up Abrupt He raced away Gray Faces pierced the nightly dew
She laughs and crafts joy Acting and churning up jokes Attention, she grabs
Fingers snapped, a million chandeliers, flew to the floor, a black marble, stoic sea. Then, splashing, beautiful shards,
Ambivalence rests Under crisp white sheets last night She woke, he woke, they
On top, of mountain of sadness, there grows a tree. On tree, it’s hard to see, there rests a nest. In the nest,
Life beams me up now Take a nice wonderful bow Caring and sharing
I can hide from some, but a baby won’t stay small for long… I confess to a long flowing dress, inside, I feel like a mess.
Dry her tears and fears She shines through the day and night Hold her as she sings
Devastation, burnt up, pulverized heart, when you told me that, “It’d take Jesus to come down, to save your marriage.”
Tonight, I saw, an angel gracefully poised on the wall. She wasn’t that tall, but she’s surely lovely.
Bloodshot eyes, vessels are like network of highways. Bags under eyes, are like the sacks of cash stolen. Eyebrows,
