Killing fiction

April 11, 2017

It’s the characters
Creeping around
In my heart and head
That keep my writing moving.

It’d be murder
To let them dissipate
Over time
In my lonely head.

Every time
The bar fly climbs
On his stool
To preach.

Every time
The poor boy cries
Over love lost
Bitter, yet sweet.

And every time
The sad man
With the deep blue eyes
Walls away alone.

If they didn’t get out
It’d be a crime
Of this I have
No doubt.

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