Bowling ball lump grows in throat,
and tears well up from heart cistern.
Desert dust drips from my freaking eyes,
I run down where the rabbit hole lies.
They have no idea how much havoc
they reek of when they tell people
âyouâre feminine or youâre masculine.â
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
It doesnât matter.
I struggle to forgive cops,
except the one who arrested my wife.
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought Iâd spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of thoseâ do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. Weâre running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and weâve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved onesâ they donât know any better, theyâll come around eventually. Heâs telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But itâs been too long. Weâre building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. Itâs a painting of an evening, like Danielâs soles in Edgar Degasâ mind, but if anything is just itâs the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like thisâ okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and youâre trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinkyâs strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. Iâd like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge3 days ago in Poets
Comments (5)
This oneâs wild! Itâs like a raw scream and I kinda felt every line bounce off my ribs.
Youâre so eloquent but then you open your literary vein and well up with such vulnerability. I appreciate your work!
Wow. Thereâs a really raw, exposed heart here. Beautiful but heart wrenching âŚ
I can feel the energy dripping off the page. Beautiful work. If I may offer editorial thoughts, perhaps drop the commas and periods, except the last period of the last, "It does not matter." In my opinion, these edits would give breathing room and then impact, respectively. Just a thought. As for substance, I could not stand more firmly with you. It does not matter.
This is getting to me. I would have changed the ending a bit, though.