I often wish I were a gentler man,
pruning flowers from thorns
in the garden of words;

but what a small nuisance
as clouds eat the days
undulating cathedral
of red and blue sky

I devour my life to the bone,
is enough to not covet
much more than the dawn child of sunset.

We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.

The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.

The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone

and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love

but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.

Despair is fear
that no one cares
and that
your life
won't be a mad cap comedy
or happy ending tv series,
but just an endless state of
existing unloved.

It is a pillowcase
wetted with
saltwater
and snot
to top
it off.

It is breaths
that cannot be
caught
as sobs steal
the air you wish
to fill your
lungs with.

It is the anxiety
and voices that
say you will hurt
the ones you love
and the only action
that is good enough
to protect them
is you dying.

It is a certain suffering blindness
where a pleasant future
does not exist
and only pain persists
in all future events.