Sinkholes, black holes, hookers, sinners and fishin’ lures that form the changing tides
Sinkholes, black holes, hookers, sinners and fishin’ lures that form the changing tides
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Read Time:1 Minute, 49 Second
I grasp the walls soaking wet, grip slipping further down and I furiously fight to catch my breath amongst the frantic panic. The hourglass continues to empty quickly, meanwhile, the piling half grows so slowly. Ain’t it funny how that shit like that works?
In those moments lost laying upon the bottom, we learn to appreciate every as we realize how much we took for granted. We numb to the effects the longer we reside until it is as memorable as a mosquito bite in elementary school. Some never shatter out of the adolescent stage.
Beauty is in the growth visible to familiar eyes. Comfort is the ability to live with the walls torn down and know everything is going to be alright. Those who cannot rise above will never become familiar or comfortable.
Couple excellent excerpts from some newer works.
I’ve been here at the bottom so long that I have received little monopoly houses to manage on my corner of the board. It’s provided me ample subject within its mysteries. The writer in me loves the sadness that accompanies the blues, the empath in me, on the other hand, is not cut out for the shit.
I’ve been occupied mentally and fallen behind on a few projects. I am sorting my shit and getting caught up then I will be releasing little teases of some new material that is not part of anything at the moment. Although it may be already enough for a new chapbook…always a possibility. But too many projects already seems to be the root of a lot of my current day’s issues. We artists never learn, but rather indulge in the excess of an underlying essence and this fortunate presence we become slaves to.
I got some things in the works that I hopefully can get in the works for next week since I failed to manage my time wisely enough to make it happen in a timely manner this week. Keep checking back to the sight nearer the weekend’s end and look for some announcement on what is being given away when and how over next week. Start July off with a little bang.
James (Jim) Miller was born in the late 1970s in a rural, little, northern Indiana farm community. He grew up between Indiana, Florida and a short stint in the New York area. He attended Vincennes University (Indiana) where he majored in English-Creative Writing, Journalism and Music-Audio Recording. During his time as a student, he held an editor position for 4 semesters at the university newspaper, The Trailblazer. James is a lifelong writer, a lover of new experiences, people and travel. Currently, he is employed as an auto factory assembly worker and part-time cook in Indiana. A couple of earlier poems of his were published in The Tecumseh Review (Vincennes University) in 2000 and various anthologies between 1997 and 2000.
He releases a regular poetry series "Ghost in the Reflection" every other week on Channillo.com and on April 20th, 2019, his debut solo collection "A Footnote for Tomorrow" released and remains available for purchase.
James (Jim) Miller was born in the late 1970s in a rural, little, northern Indiana farm community. He grew up between Indiana, Florida and a short stint in the New York area. He attended Vincennes University (Indiana) where he majored in English-Creative Writing, Journalism and Music-Audio Recording. During his time as a student, he held an editor position for 4 semesters at the university newspaper, The Trailblazer. James is a lifelong writer, a lover of new experiences, people and travel. Currently, he is employed as an auto factory assembly worker and part-time cook in Indiana. A couple of earlier poems of his were published in The Tecumseh Review (Vincennes University) in 2000 and various anthologies between 1997 and 2000.
He releases a regular poetry series "Ghost in the Reflection" every other week on Channillo.com and on April 20th, 2019, his debut solo collection "A Footnote for Tomorrow" released and remains available for purchase.
View all posts by jamesfmillerii_poet
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