filled with futile passion.

tears meant to be rationed
pooling at my knees,
spilling so fast
its hard to see.

a sea of futile passion,
beautiful but,
worth nothing
when its time to cash-in.

Never felt quite like this,
like i’m just existing
existing sweeps me away like a tide
my mind moves slowly down it like a delicate wooden raft
only to accelerate until it crashes
and I have to reset each time
each time losing a plank
until i’m quite literally on my last straw
well… semi-literally
and it *****
because I don’t even know why
why im putting myself through the journey

I’m sick of trying to make my thoughts beautiful

I’m too tired to think in verses

Poetry is like a whole other language

Sometimes I feel like I’m pretending to be bilingual

I’m not an artist

Like the rest of you

A crossroads.

a path encased in forest
green patchwork of branches, keep secret—-
the memories of shoes on the mossy trail

a path paved pretentiously
wood rebelliously pushing back against the green
overthrowing the chaos of jagged weeds
all the same suppressing the beauty of the wild flowers

a cleared path
barren of trouble
barren of life

a secluded path
enveloped in mystery
enveloped in regret

a guaranteed destination

an invitation to...

i’m addicted to beauty
i no longer want my poetry
to remind me
of the ominous goal
that you can never understand