I could tell you about my life, but that would ruin the mystique.
Poets seem to pride themselves on being dark and deep.

See beneath the surface,
and the first thing you would think:

Here's the epitome of failed friendship -
definitely one I shouldn't keep.

Our hands and hearts are cold,
but we know the secret to swallowing fire.
Watch us light our last match for a sight to behold, as we extinguish with our bodies the symbol of desire.

Walk a mile in our shoes, but only,
we wore them out centuries ago.
Now we're only ever always barefoot,
and we know how to walk on hot coals.

It's a secret we were told,
oh so ever long ago.
If you want to know,
then you may ask
the secret to eating broken glass.

Just like the secret to juggling knives,
they're all things we've known our entire lives.

They're pushing you to do it-
To finish what you started.
They're giving suggestions and making edits.
Performing audits.
They're saying,
"Maybe if you just changed the wording here, the theme there, the meaning throughout, added more heart to it."

It's clear, and to be honest,
They care about it more than you ever did.

There's a difference between being with someone, and loving someone.

There's a difference between having a place to sleep at night, and having a home.

There's a difference between being lonely,
and being alone.

The night is young,
but I'm fresh outta *****.
You know what they say:
Life is better in flux.

Something said was felt, then lost.
A memory of how it was.
I think you told me once before,
but I've since forgot.

Nothing is the same,
and everything is ******,
but I agree with what they say:
Life is better in a flux.

Home is an idea.
Ideas collapse upon themselves.

Schematics of schema left to rot.

No one cares about the consequences of your concepts or thoughts.

Lose the outline to the plot.
We're shooting from the hip now, baby.
Life is better when in flux.

You don't need a plan, man,
or to even understand how it works.
The devil is in the details, dontcha know?
I thought I've told you once before.

Your thesis has a disease of which there can't be prescribed a proper drug.

But who am I to criticize?
Life is better if in flux.

Stop clinging to this narrative line that has you tied down to the tracks.
You can miss the train, then scrape off the monkey that's clinging to your back down some narrow tunnel that spits you out whole,
unencumbered and intact,
just to cross the street and get runover by a truck.

I've told you once, and I've told you before:
Life is always in flux.

In and out of it all night.
It's over before it begins.
Supposedly, there's someone up there right now
keeping track of all our sins.

Let's give them something to stack the pages with.

So when it's read back to us at the end,
we can convince ourselves
it was a hell of a life we'd lived.

A truth was told.
The world wasn't ready for it.

A truth was folded and filed and tucked away for a later day when it'd be needed.

An urn was molded.
It was turned and kneaded and glazed
and filled with the burned ashes of a truth the world never needed.

A tour was organized.
A collection of scholars in things eclectic and obscure
observed things they'd never been privy to before.

They took notes and wrote essays for graduate programs they'd never be accepted to.

They wrote about deep-seated issues that drew connections from me to you.

But they never got published.