I have forgotten how to write.
There are only feelings, and too many
personal pronouns to even
consider this
poem.

I write this broken
as sentences
scatter orthographically
across oceans of white,
how sailboats coast the shore,
eventually
blown away from the wind.
No captain, no shipwreck,
just disappear.
As if it was never here.

I wonder
which islands they find,
whether riches or crumble.  
Is the ocean fruit still fresh?
Do animals wait with soft eyes,
or shall beasts follow forward?
How does the sun cry?
Sometimes
I hear Him.
Between clouds
and raindrops,
despite all the grey
He still shines
like these stars
within nightly kisses skies,
except all I taste are dead bodies
falling from clouds like lies
seeded against my lips with their lies.

I know not to trust.
Take it from school for example,
they teach about constellations
while hiding the biggest truth of all:
some of them are dead.
But since they still shine
inside kaleidoscopes,
does that make the lie more truth,
or still a lie?
Regardless we are blinded by the beauty,
and I’d rather sit in darkness instead of a lie.