"I'm not a poet. I don't feel like one.
I like writting. That's all."

Press me against you
Like flowers in a book

I think the sun has grown jealous
Of my friendship with the moon
I prefer dusk to dawn
And midnight instead of noon

what is the measure of sorrow
is there a standard unit
against which we may rule
an overladen mind
and a heart demolished

graphing with infinite precision
each shattered hope
and marking the dimensions
of dreams ground to dust

are tears numbered
or more properly
and accurately accounted
by volume
or weight

shall we assign a value
on a sliding scale
to the mutilation
of a human soul

can we make comparison
among various torments
or attempt to visualize
in a chart of bright colors
splashed on a screen
the lifelessness of one person
to that of another

is despair loss
or hope denied
might it be joy withheld

does suffering
have weight and volume
that we might
determine its mass

is it instead a void
where something which
was present
has been removed

is it possible to create
an image of wretchedness

a ruined and rotting
playground of lost innocence

a charred and crumbled husk
of a home shattered

an arid uninhabitable waste
of aspirations unbirthed

with what pigment
shall we produce such art
which color wheel
will be used

in what earthly perdition
are the gauges found
reading the depth of misery
or the height of anguish

what is the magnitude
of the grief
the touchstone of devastation
against which all other grief
must be measured

sometimes to
move forward
you have to
look back

i looked back
revisited
the past
all my old
thoughts
chronologically

it would appear
i've been writing down
in line breaks and stanzas
the godforsaken
dramatic **** in my head
and calling it poetry
for a solid
ten years now

ten?
really, ten?

yet i checked
and last year
i wrote exactly
four poems
the year before
six.

ten?
only ten?

and this is the
fourth for
this year
and i know
because i can feel
the words i didn't
allow myself
still rattling around

i need
to get
them
out

a set of maracas
constant cha cha
in the background
trying to pinpoint
the moment of
nostalgia

i can feel it
it was
definitely
ten

i can't salsa
dance to
my own
failure

so here i am
and i'm wondering
what if
i tried

one
just one

poem a day
it doesn't have to
be like this it can be
freeform
it can be
proper
it can be
anything

ten to one
leave the
half dozen
to the others

it just needs to
be

i just need to
be

can i commit
myself to
one
until the end of the year?

They oppose the poor
and the truth tellers,
deflecting modesty
among the crowd

They close the door
with the gossiping sellers,
rejecting honesty
strong and proud

©