I've written these same lines
about six hundred times

all of them
all of them seeming to rhyme

but not rhyme in the sense of phonetics
or in a repeating pattern of syllables

rhyme in the sense
of a pattern of misfortune i suppose
rhyme in the sense
that every line
is smudged from smeared ink and
tear drops falling on the page
in the exact same place

rhyme in the sense
that every word
of every line is
hard to decipher
because it has been written
in what I like to call
anxiety's beautiful autograph
each letter written like a
scrible and all unconnected
because it's kind of hard to
piece words together
when you can't even remeber
how to breathe right

rhyme in the sense
that these cursed
lines all stem from
every line I
have made on my skin
carved out like the words to a beautiful poem
and the blood still stains the paper

rhyme in the sense
that even when
the pen
hits the paper
and starts a new
I still cling to the
lie
that everything's not dying
and we're all still alive.