Some things are better off dead
Buried in the ground
The memories stuck in my head
Spiraling around and around

My soul sits in its tomb
My hopes are the coffin it lies in
My inner child is the surrounding gloom
My dreams are the flowers lying on the stone

My trauma make up the walls that surround
My pain is the drawings underground
My soul was buried with the shackles that bind me
I had to bury it all so it would let me breathe

You have to stop looking behind to look ahead
That’s why some things are better off dead

why not instead of stacking red
cuts up on your arm and leg
you stack words in bleeding ink
words to live by, to make you think
press the pen tip to your skin
and do not lift up the sharp thing ever again

Bygone days
Of love and prosperity
Clarity remains
With the absence of charity
No one understands the severity
Irregularity to regularity
Popularity of the singularity
We all possess a similarity:
Absence of solidarity

I was sitting at a table in a café when she walked in.

I said, “Hey, good-looking stranger— would you like a cup of coffee?”

We were laughing, drinking coffee—

when suddenly, she caressed me.

We were heading straight to the wedding—

then I woke up, needing coffee.