Poetry is stupid.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.

They say nature is a cruel mistress,
Predators, parasites and peril are her kin,
When she tears down our homes
And ruins our sunny days.

Walk among her
And her trees will ignore you
Whisper between themselves
Secrets forbidden unto the likes of the living.
Her petals turn away from you
Though you ponder them so.
Yet you still laud over them, obsession
In a rose bud.

I could chase her moon
And name every star
She'll still never look me in the eye.
I could dig my hands in her earth,
Pray to her,
She'll never embrace me as her child.
Try to understand her;
Chlorophyll
Photosynthesis-
She hasn't a care to notice me.

Natures the cult with one way to join
Initiation to her arms
Is by decay,
Horizontal and silent
Sacrifice yourself to her flowerbeds.

I long for the day I'm useful to her
And the grass blades feel me back,
Leaf sprouting from my breastbone
Finally I become her breath.

If it were up to me,
I'd let myself rot here
Drowned in my cotton sheets
And allow my skin to finally sink
In between the gaps of my rib cage.

Rot and
putrefy and
fester and
ooze,
Flesh dripping off bone,
So this stink of my own decay may be apparent to me alone no longer.

Senses overburdened by defeat.

I have a
scar on my
left forearm that
reminds me of you

not that I
cut myself or
anything like that
it's more of a mistake

than anything
I was making penne
pasta in one of those large
black pots that every family has

in one cabinet or
another and I boiled it
so it was really hot so I could
eat which was the entire point of

the whole process
but I couldn't stop thinking
of you, your honey-wheat hair
that could pass for spaghetti if you

wanted it to
but you never did so
you always straightened it
I think that's when I was thinking

of when I
poured in the pasta
too quick and burned my arm
you were time consuming so much so

that I couldn't remember
what I had been doing the whole time
because unfortunately I couldn't help but be stuck on
you

i try not to blame her
she makes you happy
and if you deserve anything
it is to be happy but
every time i see your eyes light up at her
brighter than they ever did at me
there’s a pang of aching jealousy that
hits me and my stomach drops to the floor
i wish i could be her
i wish i had her long blond hair,
perfectly shaped lips and thin hips
i wish i could’ve made you as happy as
she makes you.

soon i’ll be gone from your memory
i’d like to say the same for you of mine but
i know the thought of you kissing her will be
enough to keep me up at night for weeks

it’s not her fault, it’s not her fault, it’s not her fault
(is it mine?)

I've had a recurring dream,
In which I swim myself into deep ocean,
Ignoring icy waves that crumble atop me,
Until I'm just a pale face in the water,
Staring up
Reflecting a blank sky.

That's when I exit myself,
I watch myself drown and,
I realise it may not have been a dream as much as I thought.