I need you to understand that
the divine does not become divine
by sitting at desks
my double helix had light shining through the cracks
but that only explains why
there is an ache in my fingers
and a need to run in my feet
as long as there is not only darkness I can make my own way

a spotlight illuminates the desk
at which I sit
I am a soul being carried in a cradle
and my hands keep slipping
my eyes are starting to blur
and they just keep watching
sitting in a sea
whispering
shouting
I can't even hear them

I am writing a script at age 17 that I will refer to again
and again
until I am dead
I am writing my future
and I'm not sure who my arms think they are
but they write me entering stage left
and when I exit stage right my cells will have replaced themselves
and my arms will be different arms
the only thing I can hope for is that they will have held what they needed to

I do not know the girl I am writing about
but she knows all about me
she doesn't hate me
I know this because she smiles when she thinks of me
she loves me
but I am her burden
my decisions
affect her decisions
and that is so heavy for my pen
I still see her light shining slightly through the cracks

she will whisper to me
farther along
"It's perfectly okay"
"I was afraid too"
and we will take solace in our decisions
together

The script I'm writing is for both of us
I just hope we can meet
in the middle

you make
                 my
   hands           shake
             like my
              aunt's
   hands           shake
like they haven't forgotten
                            the weight
of the last cigarette they held
even after her precious lungs
                       had forgotten
how to breathe.

You don't always have to be alone to be lonely.

"don't let your heart
guide your head in a fight
or you will lose to the dark
before you even embark"

You live
for no reason at all
and that's
the worst
Joy.

Because.

summer is a fool.
sprung from the unctuous
couscous
of a witless bloom.
the too long reason for a plausible ruse.
a dumb chump, whupped and thrashed
but never told otherwise how down
the below goes... but well informed
how the formless reeks
of damp
No.

the worst joy is slumber
when the wind is kissing your dessicated kiss.
when the whole emotion
is half the feeling.
when the real thing is just false enough
for poetry
but real enough
for dreams.