When I was younger people told me not to get lost.
Voices would fly up and catch in the wind and be thrown back to them
as I ran through the wheat towards the blackberries.

While they called for me from a distance, calling to themselves,
I would stain my tongue violet and my fingers purple.
Then run farther away, I’m not sure where. Farther than they made it.

It’s easy for me to run, it’s only me.
When they run, they try to carry all of them.
You have to run alone though, if you want to make it anywhere.

When they reached the blackberries they all held hands
creating a barricade of arms so i couldn’t run away
a barricade of arms for me to break through.

(It’s not nearly as fun to run if there is nothing to hold you back)
(What can you discover, otherwise?)

As I emerged on the other side with my blue stained hands
they stared at my in shocked awe, the barricade broken.
They tried to run after me, but like i said,
you can’t get lost with other people.

So I ran away alone.
Only you can be found.

I write the kind of poetry
That gets stuck to the roof of your mouth
That you'll choke on as you swallow down.

I write the kind of poetry
that once you recite,
Sets your oesophagus ablaze,
leaves you burning around the edges
but still staring in amaze.
engulfed in flames for
years not days.

I write the kind of poetry
That you'll spend centuries
Trying to extract from the
Ringing in your ears
As the dangerous impacts
Only grow
And in you, bellow.

I write the kind of poetry
that gets embedded deep within your fingertips
and buries itself securely under your skin
The kind of poetry you'd rip yourself to shreds
In an attempt to
Tear apart, dislodge
Each stanza circling
within.

I write the kind of poetry
You could try to wash
off a thousand times
But that remains engraved
Deep within the wrinkles and lines
The creases of your mind.