I started
giving ink
to my tongue
and for some reason
I developed a sleeve tattoo
that spelled courage

The doors seem to be open, the room seems to pour out onto the lovely maple floor the woman of the house killed her husband on.
Writing is like drawing, you give so much time only to try to improve what's barely adequate and hardly deserving.
Much like her husbands love and his curly hair, not to mention the tasteless affair.
You can say you quit, you can throw a fit, but spotlights rarely move from the limelight.
Much like the fame driven actress, your morals weren't put into practice and Jesus wasn't there to act tactus.
Pennies weren't on his eyes, even after his demise.
They would have been stolen, had they attracted that bitter, mourning actress.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

are you not weary of signals
people in their garments and their styling
in their homes and their gardens
embroidery on the corners
of their tableclothes
all waving peacock feathers
here! here! is where I come from
here my finances
my people
my desires

the tip, the trick:
apply layer after layer of
obscure reference
and then hope there is someone
to whom it is entirely transparent

"It's fine
to do nothing
being busy
isn't that
glorious"

Picking away
the skin
on my fingers

I can't sleep
so I talk with strangers

My family is a big disaster
I want to change my name
and forget about my father

My fingers start to bleed
I got a cut on my toe
it's hard to breathe

sometimes
when everyone
expects the best of me

There's no better me

Hard to imagine
me ever changing
drastically