I don't belong here
so what am I doing?
Sitting before you, feeling the knots in my back
quivering fingers, lingering over letters
sending each with high hopes and precision
arrows shot in the dark;
hoping to poke holes and see light
this is all that I offer, bowstrings crescendo
shooting stars that fizzle out in the night
harsh on the harpsichord, striking forth with harsh accord
I feel the rise in my chest, chimney smoke fills my breast because I write

I wander the sky, a beggar and traveler
as I crawl through the gutter, a singer and teller
were I not scratching at the outside of this gate
you'd find me chasing the wild hairs to somewhere else
my home is not defined, my roam is a joy of mine
I run around with no aim, nothing to claim
no plan or agenda, no reputation to my name
when I see the hideous terror that mankind can commit
paired with the beauty, I revel in the chaos that does sum it
shriveling my skin, frozen to the bone, never not alone
the world is all a mountain we have yet to near the summit
so I celebrate the suffocating, loss of sense as high as we are
because it only means the bottom has fallen out, we've come so far
and I inhale that feeling to leap with a shallow breath
knowing all of this is all this is, I will write even when I am nothing left.