1/10 SINFUL An absolute disgrace of an artistic piece devoid of even the smallest semblance of redeemable good. 2/10 Terrible I see one,...

There's not much I could compare the concept of home to without being cliche. Is home a feeling? Maybe. Is it a person or, if you're...

A poem by P. G. I no longer fear the light that shines so brightly from my soul I no longer fear the weight nor weary of what comes with...

A poem by P. G. if you're reading this, i'm glad (and i mean it) if you're reading this, i'm scared (and i mean it) if you're reading...

and what a strange sensation it is to roll over wiggle the aliens on my hands and feet

A poem by P. G. i. June again or so they tell me. I can't keep track anymore nor do I care to so it's June again sticky hot lost lost...

You walk into the kitchen, flipping on the light as you hobble towards me. I hate this. You don't know that, though. If you did, we...

I've lived my life at crossroads paved with hot crosswalk kisses

listen closely to the sounds of night the next time you're alone:

‘If music be the food of love, play on; / give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, / the appetite may sicken, and so die,” says the Bard...

it was me who destroyed that painting in the bedroom...

Dear, Mother is a creative nonfiction piece from P. G.

And so who are you then? All I see is a skeleton high and alone in a bed...

A poem by P. G. Memories float on, saccharine, like warm eighth notes, They tease my fingers as I reach, reach, reach stretching and...