There’s a dirty kind of feeling,
A deeply driven repulsiveness
That sits somewhere between the throat
And the far back of the brain.
A moment that seems eternal,
Like a punishment for some sin,
Looking inward to an abyss
Of secretly sensitive yearning.
The reflection of something I cannot see
Knaws and separates myself from their company,
Dirty, deep and seemingly forever
Like the immortal voice of an angel that’s ugly.
Poems and Short Stories 