I love you
             The way
       the sun
Loves
          the moon

Never together

       At a distance

              Always and *forever

It is possible to go into detail forever about anything
It makes poems that are about everything seem so dull
No human could possibly comprehend every single thing at once
Categories maybe
But a fully relatable and tangible poem has to be specific
I can talk about metaphors
How something is something else
How life is dull
How nothing quite is the way it should be
I could write about how deceiving everything is
How death could or could not be mysterious
Poetry is art
Art should change, develop, and turn into new forms
Art is poetry
I will be my own artist
I will speak as though i am god
I am god
I will list my flaws to protect myself from the judgment of readers
I want to make art until I die
I want you to read every single word that comes to my head
I am cliche
I know I’m cliche
I want you to appreciate me as much as I appreciate me
I want to talk to you like a lover
You are art
You are a poem
You are so specific
You are me and I love you

I question my life so casually
I question my life like i wonder what tea to make
What song I want to listen too
Why the heater is so hot
You’re in another room sleeping but you are so much further
Another brain
Another person
Another room
I imagine what shapes your body makes when it sleeps
How many fractions of an inch your hair is growing tonight
I could wake you up and read you a poem but thats not what you’d want because you work early and when it comes down to it you will never get anything from my poems
I need to sleep so I can get up early
Because I will wake up with you
Even though I know I won’t be able to go back to bed
You’re so good at sleeping
Maybe life isn’t so casual for you

ill pull at my hair because sometime i forgot i could
be rough with myself
the heavy weather is falling from the sky and pouring out my ears
the silence of the room is not enough
i see before i feel
a melody playing for a lifetime
not a note out of place
not an instrument bent
it stops when you stop to listen to your sobs

i will still never show you my poems.

We sat next to each other and dissected poems
My chest was shaking in the center where my tattoos almost touch
I would like more time
My poems were loved
I was loved
I showed you how to pull at your hair right
I told you what to imagine
I missed you and we talked too fast
All my poems are shades of grey
I am the the industrial streets
You will leave
You will come back when you’re sick of sitting

I’m glad you love my poems

288

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!

How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one’s name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!