Twenty Twenty

She told me “it could be ten days, it could be ten years.” Eight tenths of a decade have passed since I promised I’d wait, and the tears shed and blood bled have stained like fate on pleasant memories. Only two more years await. – © Sam Hunt, 2018 Advertisements

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God is cold sweat. God is dumb luck. God is the rush of regret from a loveless fuck. – © Sam Hunt, 2018

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We Could Be Worse

“Quit the noise and write a symphony. My sympathy is finite and you might do better to radiate melody.”   Forgive me if it grates but we can’t all be happy. Never mind symphonies, I can barely compose myself. I only decompose. It’s hard to sing about smelling the roses when all I can picture […]

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I am displacement, a conflicted conscience at odds with consciousness. Self-effacement taken to the extreme debases that which is human, and so I ruminate on my futility inside a one-bedroom tomb. Emptiness consumes you since you can’t breathe in a vacuum. – © Sam Hunt, 2018

Read more "Company"

Thank God for Hangovers

This distraction saves me from myself. I can’t remember yesterday or why I hate myself. I’m truly in the moment, and long may it continue. Long may these hangovers supplant this misery. Long may these drugs be a better struggle. – © Sam Hunt, 2018

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Hold You Better

In my most evolved form we could recharge in my arms until the storm passes. Thoughts of drastic action can be buried in the past and we could be fearless. We could be powerful. For now I’ll watch the hours pass and be grateful. – © Sam Hunt, 2018

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