poetry is not supposed to make you feel comfortable.
it is like a web you must fight your way through, even though it sticks to your flesh. it is like a light you must follow, even if it's blinding.
poetry is not only stars in the sky, but the snow brushed upon treetops and stuck underneath the wind shield wipers.
you have to read it with all your senses, you need to hear the way a voice breaks, you have to see the way they look into the sun and don't bother to squint.
you need to taste the blood on their hands.
poetry is not supposed to make you feel comfortable.
you should imagine lips sewn over bleeding gums and skin like saran wrap and fingernails like construction paper. don't think of a steering wheel, think of the cold rotting fingers wrapped around it. think of their last thoughts. think of the goodbyes that they never got the opportunity to forklift out of their porcelain lips.

poetry is not supposed to make you feel comfortable because it is not comforting, it is honest as blood red paint on a canvas, as a summer storm; as a kiss goodbye.

don't come here looking for something or expecting the sun to shine through the shades and let you know it'll be okay because this is too honest and raw for me to tell you you'll be okay.

sometimes,
you won't be.
sometimes,
nothing ever will be again.


there are times in the desert when it doesn't rain all year and time's in the amazon when it never stops. you have to be ready to bash your head through the window to break your way out.
or nothing
will ever,
ever,
be okay again.