When I owned the moon,
love songs made me swoon,
and birds rejoiced in magic,
but I dropped the ball,
a fumbl-
            ing

            fall.
Now all they sing is tragic.

i've realized that
me weeping out
in the form of ink
and words won't
make a difference
for my betterment

and yet, it feels
all too beautiful
to spread my tears
in the form of art
everywhere i go

as far as i can tell,
it's a waste of time
to give your heart
to people who will
crush it and leave it
to wane and wither