Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
Fair only spins on Ferris wheels, and how can one control one’s deepest churning feverish feels? Fair only spins on Ferris wheels,
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Poets
I feel my heart speeding on the highway of your hands. World’s endless, taxing demands, they didn’t even matter anymore,
Hexagon flies flitting, cool, damp night, simply sitting. Head spinning from week’s drama, while I worry about my next comma.
Samuel and Patricia took a fast look at one another. “Stop!” Patricia yelled at the squirrel with the half knitted shirt or pants or whatever it was starting to look like now. Samuel started jetting towards the squirrel.
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Fiction
I’m going to make my country proud, and my father too. I’m gonna’ go to war, and it’s no chore… not at all, in fact!
Blurs, slurs and sad songs bring, a ring to the air, combating the calling chatter. It matters most because we play with our souls,
I dream about making you some mint tea, and watching you smile so fantastically free, and playing you a piano song that I wrote just for you,
I don’t hear the ticking of a clock because I don’t have one that ticks. My clock is silent and deadly, especially when my alarm goes off,
I saw the lights flash. He shoved me to safety street, Death fell, had him beat.
I spy on my mind’s eye; you have got to be stunningly gorgeous, just like your will power and emotional gravitational energy.
When I dance with Passion, we move and pulse as one. I lift her, and she gets me. Gracefully flipping, on love we are sipping.
Mast ripples from wind’s massaging touch. I look toward lady liberty, side of ship I clutch. A whole new life in a land of opportunity,
