Becoming the writer
I dreamt I could be
I just never imagined
It’d be poetry
Not some novelty
Story
Compelling me on
To renown and acclaim
And conclusions foregone
No delusions of fame
Just a roof for the rain
And enough sustenance
To existence maintain
And if it’s supplemented
In wages or pages
I pledge to persist
To rephrase it in phases
Develop my craft
Indigent
Or affluent
And offer the movement
Consistent improvement

I wish for (y)our happiness

I see everything
But I have nothing to say
It’s a stupid thing
Because I will be the one that has to pay.

we are going
in circles
always lying
so miraculous.

this will never
end
and forever
will we pretend.

constantly creating worlds, as delicate and beautiful as paper,
strokes of ink scrawled all over that dissolve in the sun
and get set on fire,
i lost the addresses and now I'm a creature of a  poem-tainted new world,
rotting in the sun and constantly setting my mind on fire
recycling the dead universes, I was being strung along
Its hard to believe that these places were my homes when now they just drift through my mind and come in my dreams
if i went back there i would probably break down crying
i don't belong there anymore
it hurts