Cold Toes: Tired Feet
On the Alone-liness of an Artist's Poverty
There's no heat in my house and these floors have teeth. Cold toes always pitter-patter best to the tune of winter blues anyway, if that's the ditty we've got to sing. Maybe this year I'll freeze half to death, then the holes in my socks and pockets can have at what's left. If it's so, rest my body to the weathering hymn of this hardwood's creaking. Until then, you can find me in bed, lover - even jump in. Just know a chill settled through your end, and I'm sorry these sheets are so thin with too few dollar bills to patch them.
About the Creator
Jake Sierzega
Rock'Artist | Bookworm | Writer
One-Fourth of the Ambient Rock Band, Dreamer & Son.
Keep reading
More stories from Jake Sierzega and writers in Poets and other communities.
When, The Wasteland
Love is earned, seldomDeserved. Demanded,But always incomplete, becauseFor the entitled toStruggle equates an inadequacy.We have such wide eyesFor the fleeting high ofSunset love and movie magic,Making desperate uneasyAttempts to petrifyThe fields of Elysium,To eternalize the world beforeThe wasteland.Perhaps, because we know thatAll we have,All you have ever knownWill fade away, one day.These places and times of plentyFall victim to their wintered sleep,Both inevitable andImpermanent. A question ofWhen, not why.No one ever saidPerfect meantForever.
By Jake Sierzega6 years ago in Poets
Midnight
60 seconds… 59 seconds… Time was slipping through his fingers, though he clawed at the falling grains of sand, he could not stop the hourglass from flowing. Around him, the silence was deafening. He had taken over every screen in the command centre, putting the terrible seconds before the terrified eyes of his friends and comrades.
By Alexander McEvoy4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.