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rook Jun 2019
every now and then my pen runs dry.
i forget how to swallow the words of others, as if any thought can be truly organic.
why isn’t there a farmer’s market for ingenuity?
how much to buy a phrase that could finally satisfy me,
a phrase that would finally make me stop after years and years of
nomadic poetry tried to string together meaningless events into a story
that actually made sense?

every now and then,
my pen runs
i spit all of my words out in search of answers to
questions i shouldn’t ask.
i was parched.
i have so long been parched.

one day
i will set my pen down
and one day
i will look up to the sky in this desert of my own creation
and i will stop trying to put the pieces together
( there are none that fit)
i will close my eyes
and let the rain fall.
rook Feb 2019
i've never known what to do with myself.
i carried my heart away in the storms you raised
and i called myself your son, but only in name;
but, oh, what a name.
fear, fear in the eyes of men until they see me
a mere boy
a child, playing at games he knows nothing of,
like he had a choice,
and two brothers to hide
secrets he pretended not to know.
and he never knew what to with himself, because it never mattered:
everything was already decided long before the day he was born,
on the day where
the house was empty, and nothing had yet begun.
he set everything in motion.
i became a catalyst for a game i played from behind the scenes,
and let the main characters take the stage.

you always belonged in that light;
i'll make sure you never see otherwise.
rook Feb 2019
i am not irredeemable.
there are permanent marks on people i've known,
left by the wars they fought against me;
i have done more wrong than i can ever remember,
     or begin to repair.
there are people for whom i'm a monster,
and i know the validity of that claim --
but i am not irredeemable.
does the sky ruin itself with storms?
does the earth make itself unholy with every quake and eruption?
i have struck with lightning,
           and been struck in return
but i am not all magma and thunderheads.
i am clear skies and gentle showers; i am
calm tides, and soft grass.
i am not irredeemable.
rook Feb 2019
how time changes things.
i used to believe that the old saying about how
time heals all wounds
was a lie;
it turns out, i just didn't have the patience
for recovery.
i was running in circles in my own mind,
that i had no other choice.
how frustrating that the light was always in reach, but
time heals all wounds
even for me.
rook Sep 2018
i still don't know what happened.
i wonder if you even remember us; we were friends, we were close.
then we weren't.
is it weird to still think about it? is it weird that it still hurts?
we deserved some kind of answer.
i don't think i'll ever be okay until i have one
i don't care what it is; we deserved something, at the very least.
what happened?
rook Mar 2018
the dust settles on me -
two bottles, broken
drop me in the ocean with no anchor
because my sins will weigh me down
i never felt too comfortable in my own skin, and i have
you to thank for that.
i’ll shed it all off, anyway, in the morning light;
i’ll be a snake,
and when i slither out of what’s left of the old me
i’ll be secret, and i’ll be safe, and
i won’t be heard from again.
rook Feb 2018
i don’t know the things that i like.
i know what he likes
and i know what
he doesn’t.
what about me?
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