the recluse by m ennenbach on Patreon I wrote this story for an anthology that ended up not coming out for whatever reason. It’s quirky and deals with a poet that can smell emotions and secludes himself but due to a new book coming out he has agreed to do an interview. I love the […]
being a poet is similar to having a heart attack on the toilet when your family discovers this factoid they leave it out of polite conversation oh yes, he was a writer or oh yes, his heart just gave out there is just no easy way to explain it
the problem with dreams is waking alarms sound pain flares there is always something to ruin the placid state of reverie reality truth words if i could remain sleep walking for five more minutes not have this bubble burst to fall silently to the earth i will gladly accept the impact maybe the great poets […]
i spoke with the regularly scheduled poet the one that shuffles in around this time bags under his eyes looking angry in need of coffee he snarled at me nearly bit my hand told me he is finished i tried to convince him he had a contract in which he laughed a gentleman’s agreement he […]
she asked for my greatest hits i gave her my gradients instead the gradually depriciating deprecating pieces of the swollen tide within my mind she asked why i write poetry i said look around everyone does now whether they have anything to say or not suddenly it is en vogue to pretend to be a […]
it’s broken the words are falling upon now deaf ears all i have are the words and they have abandoned me poetry has died inside my unresponsive soul i have stopped dreaming of her of joy of happiness of anything left with the emptiness new year same depression no hope just this familiar despair the […]
i am a crossword puzzle but all the clues are left blank a word search of hieroglyphics a sudoku made from hypothetical digits an ode written in an imaginary language by dyslexic blind aliens but also i am yours so through all of the incomprehensible parts whether it is understood or not know it is […]
i don’t know what is happening anymore. when i write i slip into my persona non grata my alter ego the fool. in the real world i am a stain black mold the fungus among us. a ball of withered depression. the fool though he wants more from life. he dreams of love from the […]
he was a poet right up until he slipped cracked his head on the toilet bowl now he is just another ghost haunting and haunted in equal measure
a poet had passed away one whose words i took comfort in he wrote long beautiful pieces and passed quietly a few days ago i would quickly read his works sometimes multiple times his words sang a haunting melody now they are silent his past lives on but i always wanted more the great human […]
Mike's Manic Word Depot 