Sometimes we're too much,
and not enough,
for people who are everything,
and nothing at all.

I am a timeline of everything I've ever known.
It's copied onto thirty-five pieces of blank paper
and revealed to you in that mundane history course
that everyone naps through.

I can't deny
that among the black waves,
I've seen a sea star or two.
But I seem to be devoutly colorblind
to the silver linings that outline
what I've gone through.

You can't disguise your drowning,
nor can you swim to shore.
You just have to hope
that no one knows what to look for.

If your heart
truly had strings,
I would wear my
fingertips raw
in search of your melody.

I could

scream your name
over and over again
and still
you wouldn't
give a ****
about
m
    e.

there is a certain sickness which swallows the Poet.