To the end of the fields where they meet the sun
and the blood runs up to the sky
where the youth of our nations fell in death,
100 years on
we're still wondering why.

Chewing on the breakfast air
morning's here and
it's not fair,
where did the weekend go?

the moon wrapped itself
around your face,
as if like a mask,
protecting you from the monsters,
hiding something that I still don't know,
as street lights dissolved,
silently, oh so quietly,
into the night sky,
contesting and wishing
to become the stars held together
with moments like this
and that and who and where:
I'm still
not there.

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.

we can't choose our life,
but we can change it.