Entry 1


The pressure of it feels nice

My finger between 

The pages that bind (me)


I hadn’t said yes

I hadn’t said anything

And the thing is

While I was trying to save him

I didn’t know the poison he’d fill me with


What did we speak about last night?

As the wine flowed freely and the air was more smoke than breathe

Were we life’s philosophers 

Or shit shooters

Or some poetic melange of the two?

I don’t much remember. 

Do you?


I keep all sort of things in boxes.

Most damaging I think is

People where they used to be,

Instead of where they are. 

It keeps them (& me) small. 

And what’s funny is

They’re constantly showing me that they don’t belong in boxes.

But each time they get out, I forget they escaped, and I pack them right away again. 

Where my brain says they belong. 


While you were busy being flattered

You let him steal away in a piece of your mind. 

His name is memory now.

PoetryDevin Wilson