I hate being a writer…
Inspiration does not understand time,
or wait for me to grab a pen and paper.
It does not care that it’s inappropriate to
scribble feverishly in most circumstances;
like sorry I should be working but
I’ve just gotten the idea for lyrics to a song.
I know you’re in the shower but
this poem has to be written.
Oh you’ve just woken up from a nightmare?
Let’s write a ******* novel.
I do not control my words, my words control me.

going to sleep at four in the morning
waking up at four in the afternoon
trying to justify my insomnia
like i’m not the problems
that i create for myself
goodnight, sleep tight
don’t let the bed bugs bite
you in the *** you narcissistic
piece of sleepless ****

in between puffs of smoke
we locked eyes.
small rings escaping your mouth,
caressed my face;
light headed and mesmerized,
i found myself wanting a taste
directly from your lips.
the crown royal was not the only thing
that had me flushed
hearing you croak a raspy out-hale of my name

i wish that i had atlas hands
so that i could trace fingers
across maps and be transported
to where you were
nothing would be unfamiliar
if your face was what i saw
against the backdrop of the world

non, je ne regrette pas une seule chose
car vous voyez à travers moi, mon cher,
et vous feront toujours.

there’s a fire in your eyes,
and i’d like to be the one to put it out.

on the corner of bell
i questioned who i was
in comparison to this big city
i’m an ant on the bus
trying not to get squished
i stood next to the space needle
and it felt infinite while i was momentary
i was lost like a penny
that rolled into the streets
worthless and forgotten
seattle’s a drain
and i’m going down
drowning