As a poet,
I have some
sort of “sickness”.
A “disease” that
makes me cough
cold, raw, inky words.
It forms sentences
you never heard
out of me before.

On endless hours
of sitting in a
room alone,
my throat
hurts so badly.
Someone sliced it
open with a knife—
I lost my broken voice
in the process—
But not my soul

The young woman strikes a vending machine
minutes after seeing her test score.

The young man enjoys lunch under an evergreen.

Her previous night, nothing but a smoke screen.
A new substance leads to a new door.
The morning after, she strikes a vending machine.

He drinks cool water from his canteen.
Not a care in the world; therefore,
the young man enjoys lunch under an evergreen.

More distressed than she’s ever been,
she makes her way to a liquor store.
She treats it like a vending machine.

Brushing the dirt off his shoulder since nineteen,
and sure of what he stands for.
Enjoying lunch under an evergreen.

The distressed girl finds her way to a guillotine.
While collected young man stands up for an encore

After many morning afters, she sells herself
like food from a vending machine
While the young man enjoys lunch under an evergreen

In the bliss of a given chance
there are heartbeats in a trembling rhythm.
i ask God why he gave me these hands
when i can't even help myself with them.

My reflection glistens,
in the hard-edged mirror,
No one listens,
when i mention the scissor.
The tip of the sword,
meets my skin,
not a single word,
replenishes the sin.
Drowning in tears,
my heart sinks low,
with blood red fears,
my heart rate, low.
Guilt lies near,
with regret and despair,
not a single thought clear,
i melt completely bare.

I envy the rain,
for it can touch your pretty face,
trace your lips,
and rest upon your skin
ever so gently,
while I was never allowed
to touch you
as intimately as it does.