http://slow.writerscafe.org/snapier1 The original writings of author Stefon Napier en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776173062 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I'll cry out when I'm in painbut I'll smile too becauseit means people will hear me and on the lines of my old scarsI'll write poetry and then they'll stopto read me but they won't find an endingbecause I'm still alive and not one for standing stillbecause I'm pursuing the interstate through Ne.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1526235/ Later. Perhaps tomorrow.The next day like it was tomorrowThen a week built of spare changefor a few fizzy moments.Maybe. Then later.Later never remembers and thinks it was later.You start to dream backwards and wishthat you died politely back when there were still yesterdays. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1519113/ Within the sphere of my head, I am safe, thoughthere could be a number of things that I am running away from.A stuffed flamingo on a shelf, watches the room.It watches the sick child whose body seems to ignore the voicescongregated in the hall.Tomorrow the flamingo will be placed in the attic.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1509675/ Death in a bag and ocean floor symptomsfor the afterlife of fame.Fiction derives from the common day.Some days you have to run away with your everyday life.Some days you have to flip a coin.Some days you have to find a makeshift graffiti glazed altar and pray.Find a wild place in the street and pray.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1508221/ Alone, like famine in a languageI travel.Footsteps barely clinging to the groundin the wake of frail parched shadowsduring a morning less dawnlike an endless verdict. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1507757/ I think of that distance which will not in a roadbut for the cracks of pebbles and stones on a grey wildand I contemplate on all the places that I have found.Abstract winter sills and whiskey summer soundsand places that I've been where there is no ground.And of city crowds and the times it was ok t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1507723/ In this world, idealism is only small thing.These towns will surrender,masquerading love before a fermenting mooneven as the heart of the last jukebox fadesIt is only the beginning and ending of life that has ceremony.The stiff, cracked, sidewalk in between lets the marbles seep inso that their slim.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1492903/ From the window, a Paris breeze unkempt,as she lingers within the naked hourkeeping the famished streets waiting.Her gentleman is fatigue.Her pocketbook is the moon.She comes perishing the day withthe dark heels of night.The sky orange with a black finish.Her own delicate black dresssweeps across cr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1484073/ We're all running out of poetryinscribing pale imitations of wordsto the left of our hearts.I wonder if I can ever seethe white from the dark again.It only appears to fade into the distance.The sky I'm facing will never end,no matter where I watch it from.Peeking at it from a thin alleyway,a glimpse.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1479104/ A Continuation of "We're Running Out of Earth" by Devin Mitchell Durbin Side poetry http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1477090/ A companion and side poem to Devin Mitchell Durbin's poem "We"re All Running Out of Time" which can also be found on this website. Give that one a read to grasp this one. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1477064/ A precious ink runs down my skin to the floor where it pools. My pen is still full. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1468354/ There is always red.Blue.Blue runs upon greenin the face of yellowseven times a week.A struggling rainbowbrightens it's purplebut society attacks soit looks crimson instead.White and Black do naught but juxtapose.There is always red. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1467512/ The road is a densearchaic misery duringthe cold wealth of winter andmy happiness clings to the radiator betrothed.Season me withcoffee thoughit only be a lonelypath that I might stillfind the muse to go astray.Into the quiet white dinI've been http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1467140/ #Israel #Hanukkah http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1457075/ In AmericaThere is a scarcity of good fingersGuitars rendered unable to breatheI discovered here,Aptitude was made necessary to dream. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1206828/ I've been besieged by yellowed years and so my youth is growing oldThe folds of which smolder in  sin like moldRode the American roulettes till my momentum lost consciousInsisted I could live on dreams parched and stretched thin The apartments with grainy carpets, drained sofas  .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1206826/ I loosen myself from the daily brick of the dayThe pain urges anger,A wailing hurt that causes the heart to become inertLike when fame fails miserablyBlackened out, a night persisted by doubtCalls into question the integrity of the morningsSun rises like a daily warningbut I'm still warming Up... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1203196/ To the fallen soldiers http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1201747/ Some of the words are how they are spelled in the United Kingdom http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1200995/ Ranged life lives lively For today I am so wholeMy antiquity is narrow my breaths are sureAs I traverse this afternoonI am colloquial to the Sun and its stars, the cloudsThe warm sidewalkIt lounges me to lingerbested by peace, the persistent sound of hummingA kind of glory at easeThe .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1199751/ I wish I was an English LadThe cradle of Victoria And I'll be a poetAt Sunday's leisureThe bequest of elevensesDip my feet into the ThamesChristen myself http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1199706/ I hold my smile awhileWith it, the day lasts even longerI've been a fool, staining everything with my unwarranted silenceand unheard of sense of selfEvery night is an unpaid ultimatum I quiver instead of breatheSomehow destiny isn't always a path before youBeing rather like a steep dive into untold .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1199693/ I'm a lionNot a truth to beholdRacing across savannahs Herding the day before meMane tucked in neat  This is the image I have created for myselfJust until I die.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1198878/ My heartAgainst sun and windIs rentNor can my will shatter the indomitable Upstairs he sitsEnjoying the restless eveningListening to me and my sin on the street below http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1198871/  There are stillmoments all yearSuch dates arescrawled into calendar cornersFor every commonday frayed,The edges ofwhich go from invisible to silent,There’s a wish. 1991I woke up as Stefon.Edgar had died in Baltimore many years before. There's a w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1195513/ Yesterday came and fell But I sleep in the worst kind of way dreaming just ahead of hellI live a life claimed by no oneThough all the cities are anchored by heroes There's nothing to keep me from slipping.I cry uselessly by the waterfall I used to keep regret downIn the mornings besie.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1192270/ For rock bands but for a band I got the opportunity to see play a couple of months ago. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1191153/ Imagine if fate was imaginable.After a sore run you sleep and remain human.Being knowledgeable you exist and are to parley to blame.Of the same nature are the fire bitten flowers in the gardenExposedNudged gently by lilac windSkin?There's no need for it.You know everybody by scent and the hiss of th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1190849/ Short essay that discusses the roles fraternities have in civics. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1188604/ I spent some time thinking about a friend as he diminished with the days AcquaintancePersonStrangerHumanMouse.Then he was goneThe world had consumed him. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1188564/ The lion admires the carnival as best he canA soul contained within decades Now here come the multitudes pacing back and forthApplauding his disaster Law is painAnd all the days seem so sad beneath his pawThe enormity of his being is what kills him http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1188490/ People say your dying everydayI walk down the street, frankly amusedThere are bad sidewalks surebut as long as there are dollar stores.....I was ten onceI remember itSo that means I'm still tenAnd nowhere near dying. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1188180/ This poem will be a part of a another series I plan to release http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1187629/ Let the lights grow, let the lights growThey'll only cast orchestrated shadowsDon't be a victim of disbeliefA failure leaving truth behind.In the stagnant silenceOnly a stage away from Walden Permit yourself a dream. Among the hush tones of  pinesand the admonishment of.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1187282/ I'm finding myself in a situation in which I don't know what's going on and I sense a lot of orchestrated silence. I'm trying to keep my feelings down so I wrote this to portray the situation. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1187026/ The steps rise all night.Away from the world and it's façade.Where there's a little light left, you are born.At first it's simple.Live before you die, but there's peril where there's no mistakes.People, they know how to cry.Light their cigarettes and bring ashes to funerals. &n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1184342/ Who are the writers?And If there were no days, would they use the nights to flit about? Who are the writers?Well perhaps we're unseen.Bare figments of skin.Aspired to wreck the habit of bad silence and the taste of mild gin. To change the great madnessWe've learned to fashion gladness.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1184311/ I recall,in sleep, a joy.Walked my fingers along a wall.Hop-scotched, twirled and thumbed, beyond the aid of drums.Little revelries, packed with beats.Luminous palms pursue psalms harkened by silver dreams crafted by little children resting under eaves.While they sleep, the fire cannot breath.A.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1183683/ Summer turns everything to stone.Only the present exists and that too is idle.We stay homespun like hometown hummingbirds.Glory to ancient myths creased with silence.At ease, crossing vastness and drifting like leaves ParalysisLike the way we turn our backs on our own truths.Standing still beca.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1181043/ Here's what I've learned:  Before I stand by anyone,any creed, any standard; I should tie my own laces , iron my own shirt, find my own path, be my own applause and lay claim to my own individuality.  I should assert myself as an individual not to be as if above men, but to meet .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1180075/  He's from Pittsburgh.Came in fighting the night.Got lots of steam in the evening he saidSo warm you can't even hold coffee and sometimes the steel sweats.Beers tend to weep but so do the fellas working overtime.Everything grows sorta slow and gentle.Above the hardness of it all, the sky is kin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1179038/ Holocaust http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1178955/ I want my countrySticking my knees into roasted dirt the morning after Sunday  Playing dog and kicking up the Mississippi for a jibeBut there's bees on the hillRoarin lungs over tea, that the land is ruled by their duty. That skill is not bound,it is not property.Should ownership exis.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1178655/ Handed over a dollar Given bread, a little thing But people are multitudesA majority but not enoughSo when frugal days outnumber nightsI think of how the dollar overwhelms us http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1178544/ Tuesday. Amarch of shoelaces with iodine in my pocket.Feet againsthard foe. The values seep into cracks of asphalt opened up to receive them.Called it astomp. Rubbery issues heat and twist like facades of a blissful demon in joyousromp. Coarse air mixed with friction lik.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1154426/  I cry out for a hand.From where it willcome, I cannot say.Rising from tangledweeds and bitter hay,Greeting the firststrokes of a pale morning sun.I cry out for a hand.Dusty fingers fromtraversed shelves,Cutting themselves onthe edges of blind history But c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1142448/ Draft http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1127357/ Currently a Draft I'm revising. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1127343/ There's foreign cement where my door should beWindows reflecting a sky that isn't mineFoundations over my fathers graveA Western garden over my mother's seeds Our grass is scrapped with stones,Crumbs of a previous destiny.Whats left of me is only a toiled path http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/snapier1/1126854/