Abigail Munson is a seventeen-year-old who likes to write poetry, personal narratives, and anything that decides to dislodge itself from that sticky gum brain of hers. One time, she high-fived Eugene Hütz from Gogol Bordello while he was crowd surfing on a huge drum and she thought it was pretty cool.
She over-uses commas to a narcotic extreme and has never heard of a period, she also thinks run-on sentences have an unrecognized beauty to them. She also can’t write on the bus, she’s tried, so every week she spends two hours on the bus watching the world through smudged plexiglass wondering how many sticky-fingered babies have left their mark indefinitely on the window of the 44 bus. Abigail loves to ramble and go nowhere in as many words as possible.
I write for a haven
I write for a heaven
I write for chunky, (heavenly) sentences
that rupture and fracture
I write for words you eat at
the dining room table
I write for a constellation
prize that sweats into the creases
of my palm
I write to appreciate reading the works
Of Karl Marx on the toilet
I write for holiness
I write for hollowness
I write for my mother’s warm
hand on my lower back
I write for remembering that
absolute slaughter of familiarity
I write for breaking all the
I write for distance
I write for never being able
to dislodge the boulder
that lives in my throat— It doesn’t pay rent.
I write to understand why Percy Shelley’s heart
I write to love my ego
I write to remember his eyes like God,
The Radio, and his electric brain makeup
I write to respect what
dissolves, that you can never get back.
I write to long and never stop