i could live without
trying to sleep, but being unable to.
i really would love to
lay on the moon,
staring at the stars.
i would go by myself.
dig
myself
a grave.
i want to bury
my beacon of existence.

my entire life,
is it not there anymore?
i don’t really know
what happens after we die.
my concept of nothing:
complete blackness and no sound.
but that is something.
i don’t really know death,
and i don’t really know nothing.

i am
riveting.
i am
a poem with a pulse.
i am
the bottom of a swimming pool.
i am
loading.
i’m sorry, too.
i have severe faults.
i am the worlds greatest hopeless romantic;
i don’t speak;
i would take him back in a heartbeat.
i am
a gigantic bomb;
i wear my guts on my sleeve.
it’s just tissue.

heartbreak is the worst kind of ghost.
i think about that all the time.
a clear vision of my future,
ripped out from under
me.
i can still hear his voice.
it’s melancholic, but in a beautiful way.
im going to search for him in everyone,
hoping he’ll call me.
i will love him until the day i die.
and it haunts me.