Poetry | Journal

I’ve driven 11 thousand miles,
in two hundred and ten-ish days,
and all I’ve learned is the homesickness sets in
as soon as the radio presets
fill with static.

They say I have this thing,
some sort of way with words.
But is another grand of miles the cost of a lonely word filled heart?

Forgive me father,
for I have skinned
my knee.

I tripped while leaving a reading tonight, and now I sit
in blood soaked torn up dirty jeans.
I may not understand your religion,
but I’ve heard you have
an honest way
with words.
So I ask you be the first.
Teach me how to fail
please, just criticize my work.