Parking Lot Poetry

So it’s been a super long time since I posted something, I apologize. Life got in the way of writing.
I’m currently looking for a 2nd writer to assist in writing for this site. If you have any interest, shoot an email to

Anyway, here’s a poem I’m writing on the spot right now. Like right meow.

Nobody ever told me how this would be
After to many years I finally see
The error in my ways
Hindsight always pays

I can kick myself hard
Charge more on my card
To help me forget your face
But is forgetting worth the race

The race is life
And I’m going way too fast
Slow down please, please slow down
I can forget your face but I can’t rid myself of your heart

There it is, sitting in my car in a parking lot.


Photo from a few nights ago

Thanks everyone for sticking with,
Zac Zinn

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

A Gleam Of Light


I posted this a few days ago but I realized it wasn’t finished. This piece of writing, I am most proud of, here is A Gleam Of Light

A gleam of light from the street lamp up ahead radiates and reaches her eyes as she looks into his. It’s the twenty-seventh smile she’s shone his way this night but he’s trying not to count. Smiling back like he had a choice, the twenty-something year old man looks down at his watch and sees the night is closing. Another hour and the sun will show the darkness its light.
Any other given night he would have been in a deep sleep until the droning noise from the alarm clock sounded. The sound signaling it was time to be an adult yet again.
However this night, this night is a night to be a child in love. It is conflict free and littered with happiness. The details of the relationship are void and serve no purpose to this night. The only thing worth knowing is that it had been years since he saw her; and he had no idea how he made it that long without seeing a face like hers.
Her bright blue irises were a syringe injecting a drug into his blood and he didn’t want to stop the addiction. She had even asked him why he looked at her the way he did. He told her he never saw eyes that quenched all his worries before. Her face turned red and he stole a kiss on her cheeks.
He took her hand when he saw snowflakes melting on her bare skin. A light drizzling of snow continued on, covering the roads and sidewalks with a thin layer of white. Friction is created between their palms that turned to a spark when the beating in his chest couldn’t be contained. He raises her hand and kissed just above her knuckles. It is a move that proved again he isn’t after her body but her heart. The smile that pressed on her face and rosy red cheeks told him he already had it.
Their light back and forth conversation went on talking of yesteryears and days gone by. The memories of the past remind him that his timing had always been unfortunate in all ways; too early, too late, somehow too in the middle. But this night seemed quell those times because nothing else mattered compared to her. She is the object of his desire – his obsession.
Upon passing the street lamp, a darkness appears on her face that is more than just the absence of physical light. He asks her what is wrong but she stays silent. No words are needed anyway. He knows what’s bothering her so.
It was the separation of years between them. It is knowledge that after this night is over, the reality of life will take the place of the peaceful bliss. It is the belief that their lives aren’t meant to stay intertwined.
Sometime later still during the waning minutes of the night, they sat at a bus stop bench. Their hands were no longer together. The quiet has haunted him ever since it began; ever since they passed the street lamp. He yearns to go back to when the ray of light stretched across her face.
People always asked him if he wanted something fast or forever. Thinking upon the hours that led him to the bus bench with her, he thinks that it was a flash faster than anything he experienced before.
He wants to say something, say anything to give her some measure of comfort. Never did he want the night to end this way. He searches for words but they escape him in the way that eye floaters evade direct sight. Abandoning the comfort of words for touch, he slides against her and puts his arm around her. She leans her head against his shoulder and by the look on her face, is soon asleep.
It is now that the first sign of light peaks over the horizon. Down the street, a bus turns onto the road and drives towards them.
He holds onto her as if he would never get to again. The fear in his heart tells him so. Taking the precious last moments he has, he presses his lips against the top of her head.
The night is over.
Morning is here.
The fear of today and tomorrow had been ridden away earlier but now they return.
Speaking her name softly into her ear, he wakes her to enter the bus. He stands next to her with a heavy heart.
People always asked him if he wanted something fast or forever. When he thought on the night that brought him to the morning, he knew what he had was entirely fast.
He wonders a question he can’t find the answer to.
Why can’t he have something fast and forever?
He disregards the question because there is no answer and follows her onto the bus.


Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Rhyme & Reason


Yes I know this is a dark and depressing poem. I’m not one of those guys that lives in dark and terrible poetry.. However I’m in a point of my life where things are rather dark. So like why writer, I turn to words express myself.
Here is Rhyme & Reason

There is no rhyme
All I am is losing time
There is no love
It flies away like a fleeing dove

There is no reason
Just another fading season
There is no plan
I’m just a wandering man

This isn’t the year
It will shed the same tear
Where is my ever after
It’s lost in the wind with my childhood laughter

Thank you
Zac Zinn
Photo by yours truly

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Heroin Girl

In order to fill the silence of my week long writers block, here are some lyrics I wrote a few days ago

Beautiful girl
Know that I’m your man
As you’re my girl
Know that I am yours

I look into your bloodshot eyes one more time
Hoping that you know
What you mean to me

Heroin girl
There’s something about you
Something that draws me in
I hope and pray in my time away
That you find peace and happiness

I look into your bloodshot eyes one more time
Hoping that you’ll come through
Knowing that I’m holding you

Brave one
Will you take the drive with me?
Take that leap of faith
Like you’ve never done it before
Peace and be still and know

I look into your eyes one more time
Hoping you see everything I feel
Hoping you feel everything I feel

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

What’s It Matter To You?

To anyone reading this, tell me what’s it matter to you?


What does it matter to you?
It’s the stare from a beautiful girl’s eyes that leaves me frozen in a chaotic heaven
It’s the embrace from a faraway brother that makes me want something more than life
It’s the searing guitar strings that penetrate the caverns of my soul
It’s the words that hide inside my heart that evade my attempts to find them
It’s the love I have to give but no one to receive it
It’s waiting for the stars to align and leave me speechless

So tell me, what’s it matter to you?

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn



Here is a piece written by a good friend of mine that’s definitely worth reading.
Obsession, by Jon Smith

Obsession is a strong word.  Not in thee sense of being obsessed with some
quick fad, or some kind of food.  True obsession. Something so important
that it is on your mind nearly all moments you are awake, whether a quiet
thunder or constant scream.

I have two obsessions that are so constant that they force me from sleep on
some lonely nights in my truck. The first has become a compulsion in my
adult life and that is writing instruments and paper goods.  The second is

Personally, writing instruments and paper goods seem to culminate around
typewriters and vintage/eclectic papers.  I understand that saying
typewriter in the modern age gives off the striking mental image of skinny,
high waist jeans, some obscure band t-shirt and a coffee cup demanding
attention with clicks and clacks in a public space.  I can understand that,
but my obsession isn’t fleeting, or some general demand to live in a parody
off the life of some famed author or poet.  There is some deeper draw to
typewriters for me.

When I began to write, I didn’t have a computer.  It was somewhere around
1993, or 1994 when my dad told me I should find a way to express my
unfettered energies.  At the time, he and I would spend our weekends
sitting through Twilight Zone re-runs and long walks to the movie theater
at Delco Plaza for double or triple features of whatever happened to be in
theaters.  He suggested that I write down all the stories that I always
made up when we walked to the theater.

It didn’t take long to realize that my penmanship was not a strength.   It
is still as awful now from an inability to focus.  So, my dad went up into
our attic and brought down an ugly brown case.  Inside was the first
typewriter I ever owned, a Royal portable.  The typewriter needed a new
ribbon, so we wen to the store and picked one up.  No, really!  Back then
you didn’t have to travel to some kitsch dealer in Brooklyn to get
something like a typewriter ribbon.  Anyhow, it took the both of us to
figure out how to replace the old dry ribbon and for me it was about the
greatest thing in the world.

Every time I visited my dad, I would spend more time getting to know the
Royal.  I was staring to learn about computers in school, which felt easier
because I spent my weekends playing on a keyboard.  I ended up giving that
typewriter to a former girlfriend for Christmas.

Just to bring these thoughts to a close, I understand the simplistic idea
of being hip through anachronism.  I keep my collection of typewriters at
home where they belong, not drug out as a focal point of my existence.  I
haven’t written a novel on any of them, but I do write most of my poetry on
any of the ten typewriters I have collected.  Does it matter what methods
are used to convey your thoughts?  Not at all.  Consider what the Marquis
de Sade used to write his final works.

My second obsession is writing, which I am sure I share with a few people
on the planet.  I have shelves filled with notebooks of abandoned ideas,
and false starts.  There are so many facets of writing that it sometimes
feels like an immense beast I am trying to tame, rather than some torrid
lover who fills me with joy.  A hurricane, a calm sea.

I was talking to a painter from Exton the other day about writing and
art.   He has a vast array of subjects that he paints, and quit his job
thirty years ago to follow his of painting as a career.  I told him about
my forthcoming novella Finzel; a Psychotic Love Story.  He asked if I had
shopped it around for a publisher.

No.  Not at all.  I wouldn’t want the confines of the structure that sells
to take away from whatever I have to say.  The work I do possesses me, and
it possesses me for a reason.  Finzel took over me for a three day span and
wouldn’t let go until it was finished.  I doubt anyone would ever pick it
up and publish it “as-is” because of the style that it was written in,
theme, etc.  It was written honestly, with fervor and a little delirium.

He commended me on believing in my work that much.  I told him that one day
I will give up my steady paycheck and fight to make a life out of writing,
like he had done with painting.  Well, it can be a harsh thing, with plenty
of skipped meals and the stress of not making the rent at the end of the
month.  I’m married to a wonderful woman who supports my work, paints my
covers for me, and wants me to succeed with my writing.

Maybe writing isn’t the only part of that obsession.  It’s on my mind all
the time, as I drive down the road thinking of what I should dictate next,
or typing when I get back home, riffing ideas with anyone who offers an
ear.  It’s a constant.  But so is the idea of finally getting myself
motivated to hit the road and read wherever there’s a microphone and an
audience, selling books in truck stop to passersby for gas and enough money
for a sandwich.  An unsafe life scraping by until some work of mine finally
hits a bigger audience.  Maybe my second obsession is success with creative
work, and not just writing.

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Half Passed Ten

I walked away again
I thought of you half passed ten
They say to me you’ll come around
But tell me, tell me when

I can’t wait too much longer
I won’t run too much farther
I’m running out of steam
In this never ending dream

I saw your face on my phone
I waited for the dial tone
They tell me to find the next girl
When each one takes a piece out of me

I came to find you alone
I wrapped my arms around you
You told me what I meant to you
Now tell me is that enough

I came to find your door closed tight
I saw it coming, I suppose
Still it hurts, this I know
What I’m saying s’I have to go

This I Know For Sure

Looking back on a life so short
But so much has changed
At least I can say
I’ve enjoyed the road so far

Every day was the same
Small changes
But it was all very much the same

Most days are the same
More worry and less fun
I start to turn around

Could be the same
But I know one thing
I know one thing for certain

It won’t be like before
This I know for sure

The Idea Of You – A Poem

I just wrote this minutes ago in a moment of inspiration.
You know life can be pretty rough sometimes. Everyone knows it. Well, I found myself in a moment of reflection and sadness and I didn’t have a guitar, so I wrote this..

I’m trying to justify to myself that I shouldn’t feel this way
People don’t feel so attached to others after such a brief time
However I find myself surrounded by sadness and only my words to vent it all

Maybe I’m only missing the idea of you
What if the worse part of this is simply the idea
But what if it’s specifically you?

I’m not sure what’s more haunting
I just can’t shake this feeling of being owed by some higher being

I know it’s a foolish thought
My journey should produce fruit right?
Well I’ve planted the seed my entire life
I’ve planted and watered

When do I see the fruit I can touch?