the world stopped growing when i stopped measuring
all of a sudden everything was within my reach
while outside my capacity
collapsing as i am under the weight of my own gravity

the noose hes holding on to
is the rope that stops him drowning
balanced on the razors edge
of someone elses understanding
of how to stop a scrambled egg
standing in the fire surrounding
the frying pan hes made his bed in
but wont lie down and die in in silence
from spitting in their eye

reiteration is the basis of everything
the most perfect creations replaced inevitably
as taste, styles and the people that make them cease to be
then they themselves remade to replace themselves equally
but better
allegedly

Im struggling to keep the pain within
showing its hated pitiful face to the world
while the raging storm swirls around me
I in the eye am utterly calm
be very afraid

know this, my child:
the things that burn your eyes
will also burn your soul.

life—
a mere crack
in infinite glass.

it makes sense, doesn't it?
if poetry comes from pain,
why not take the pain of every soul
and place it in your own?
wouldn't that give you as many poems
as there are tears?