black and white lines
my mind with meaning
lost in the
cycle of searching for
something to see and
believe in that means i don't have to
be something i can't be
that perfection is possibility
and that--possibly--
i won't sink into
everything i need to be
to believe i don't hate me
and need to continue to be
alive
and that living in sight
of everyone's
awful eyes
isn't as condemning as
i think it is
when i'm
not quite asleep
but nonetheless dreaming
everyone everywhere
hates to be
here with all our
collective sadness
and that sadness isn't
a death sentence
and we can speak something
else entirely
ennobling eternity
and our live so fleeting

this feeling is believing, so call me a saint of
spoken
sorrow
and

contradictions