There is no time
For the first time
Or the last time,
There's barely time
For the next time.

There's nothing
And then not much,
That is my life,
As such.

"You want to major in English"
"Yes"
"Do you like writing"
I just laugh at them and think back,
when I got in trouble for writing,
got out of trouble for writing,
escaped by writing,
and how I fallen in love with it.
"Yeah I do"
It is the only thing I can always do,
and it never fails to make me feel better.

I find that we poets have
a quiet desperation to write
that keeps us hanging onto life.

My soul wants to be in one piece,
In one place,
Feeling happy.

It will get better,
There will be life
After this November.

under pressure.
under stress.
i ressist, have no regrets.
1000 problems,
1000 words,
1000 points.
anxiety, rush, depression
i have to rake this mess all alone