Oh, I didn't see you there. Pull up a chair!
You've reached The West View, poet Weston T. Holder's blog.
Well, my blog. I'm Weston T. Holder.
But honestly, I'm new to... blogging. So, instead of a lengthy post with many link here, I'm just going to post a poem.
Card Trick
my blood spills over the table,
leaving red streaks of pain,
crimson stories on mahogany,
heartbreak and the common (hate) I was brittle, now I am broken,
softly dying and soft spoken,
slowly bleeding words of wisdom
to hardened hearts and severed ears,
lines misheard, and lines abused,
continuity reigns over saddened souls and gambling zeros;
the chips are up.
poker is a Friday-night-game,
with beer and chips aplenty.
the path to writer’s hell is narrow,
more so than you think.
my bluff is up. I am dying,
and I am sorry for the words I wrote,
the confusion aroused is only ignited
by the visor that shades my eyes,
as I pass forward twentyblackchips to pay for another shot at life,
not suicide, but murder.
