Wine and Writing on a Cold Night

Here I sit, Rooted to a chair, Drinking myself dry, With my curly hair Here I sit, With wine in a hand, And pen in the other, Every breath a sigh, Every limb out of joint, Lost in a red sea of self-pity As my eyes stare down at the pages I seem to lose…

Arrogantly, I mocked the palpitions of a coutryside girl's heart. her straw hat, her earthy gaze, looking into my steely own, I felt superior to someone of the birthplace of all the food I eat. I mocked her for not knowing what a Starbucks was And when she tried to teach me how to grow…