Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Criminal anxiety runs through these veins with the blood of a bleeding heart unsure when its next beat will come. The privileged surrender their fortunes to swiping right, make that uncertain phone call for one night of gratitude, and when the ties come undone, the strings fall and tie down the urge once again. Feeling the lack of air when the words choke in the vocal cords. Questions unanswered left asked for another night. The warmth of a brush of hand. Sequestered moments written upon the pages’ squares kept airtight without a memory of every being true. Common words fade; the important ones carved in the oak. Burn the collapsible lung. Learn to breathe underwater. Sit upon the open, watch the world. Sit at the open and watch the world.

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