All I know
Is how
I feel

And sometimes I
Wish I
Knew nothing

I am made of quiet storms washing themselves away.

the dusk wastes its pity on me. in its muted retiring lights, i have learned a terrible habit of forcing poems out of my mouth,
when maybe all i wanna do is be as quiet as the wounds nesting inside my head.

only the good die young
the wretched stretch and fold
gray then mold
all the sinners inevitably grow old
if this is truly so,
then afterlife’s keeper must be
cruel and cold
treating life as a commodity only
while it sweats gold
of such saying, I’ve been told
and retold
life for the good runs so quickly
it slips your hold

if all good things must come to an end
then,
I shall live forever.

She controls her laughter,
lets it slip from the edge of her mouth,
the corners of her lips lift ever so slightly,
then, she makes a sound,
seamlessly, her fingers graze my thighs,
smoothly, her eyes meet mine,
and in her eyes, I see my reflection—
aflame, abashed, and fiery,

She is the answer I’ve scoured the world for,
and yet, she, herself, remains a mystery,

Ah, I see,
She controls her laughter
as easily as she controls me.

Tragedy isn't even very tragic anymore