a poem never writes itself,
but will guide us.
its sinister intent half-mechanical, as if by formula,
yet imbued with fresh shock
and sound. a word
settles on the bones
and then another--- another.
their emergence rings hollow
before unison and rings
loudly as a whole.
cascading rhythms,
parsed onto pen-pricked page,
gasping for more
and wanting less.

i have resolved
to let these moments stab me,
teach me, by reaching my core
and harming me.
it will carve me into something
daring and emboldened;
perhaps i will be smelted,
reforged--
still stronger all the same,
especially without you.

i'm tired of being boiled down
to my barest, simplest parts,
and compromised beyond my core.

my facets ignored as if repugnant
or strange--
as if all i can ever be is what portait
painted itself.

to yell into an unyielding void
and be met with a stiff and resounding silence.
to be so resounding unheard despite
sheer and shrieking volume.

to exist in a space where metaphor scarcely follows for fear that truth will dilute it.

what importance did it ever hold?

it was all a cry.

and no one heard.

you speak like glasswork--
hot, measured, and fragile.
empty promises and murky
depths, opacity that chills
and stuns.

you speak of love
as if you know it,
but you've never let it greet you
at your door.
it knocks and you freeze,
pretend it's a stranger,
though you knew its name before it did.

you've stolen more
than you can ever repay,
and brevity in stillness still stings.

you will do well
without your opaque glass
and brittle words,
but I can't promise the same.

none if it was supposed to happen,
no wine spilling
from whosever glass heart
would hold it.
mine shattered, and it poured profusely,
condescension and hatred,
in good measure.

the lies were supposed to rest
on an old, dusty shelf
with books you no longer read,
forlorn, while warmer things
filled your heart.
only now that it's gone,
do you believe yourself the victim,
and pretend to care.
from what remains, no love of any kind
will ever echo for you again.

i was told that every poem is about death,
***, and love,
never in that order.
that it's our job to organize
the chaos in a way that makes us feel
as though we won't be forgotten
when we're reduced to atoms and scraped,
bit by bit, from every etch
we've ever made
and the earth retakes our homes,
our names,
our loves,
lives, the lost.
but it's just a feeling.
what's important is embracing
every curve, every laugh,
every spat of anger. and learning.
that hurt won't always last unless we let it.

the truth, fettered and afraid,
hid behind pain and silence.
the poet, his eyes bagged and blurred,
tapped pen to page with ink-stained fingers.
per steady grip and endless drafting,
truth came out, and cried.
it didn't know why it hid
but teased the poet to try again.
as such, he rubbed his eyes once more,
his other hand caressing bourbon and ice.