people speak to hear themselves think,  

there are no more conversations,

no more characters to play



I am an actor wearing out my grief

between the lines that barricades fatigue,  

I cannot be tired if I wish to produce,  

such is the waking nightmare of grief,  

which renders feeling a commodity, a production

profitable in utility, as if “use” ever was real



with my ancestors as guardian angels, I am guaranteed to fall

into addiction, whether it be coffee and its ability to temporarily

halt grief, or when it’s midday and life wanes as if it were framed,

As if empowerment of the businesses through the destruction of my body

justifies the tears forming the empty warzones of childhood memory,  



My writing is power and the corruption of
inner-peace, invaluable until the end,  

indivisible until I’m bleeding out, begging for mercy

My tears, damp with grief, can finally crash

into the earth

Another labor of love gone unpaid