sometimes
i pray for you
not to god,

but to all
the dead poets
we love,

they are all
pretentious pushpin
ghosts, gapping out

of skin
and turning around
to devour,

rumi always asks for me
to listen, and i see
why i pray in the first place

not for your salvation,
but so you can blossom
into the warrior

i know you are

I'm thinking of numbers
As I type with my fingers
Bruised and scarred
From writing so much
For nearly 7 hours of the day
I count my steps as I pace
My empty room
Tired and alone
My battery is draining slowly
From my division and subtracting
Which adds up to loneliness
Dread, anxiety and depression
It equals to suicide
Every 40 seconds of my life
As every 40 seconds
Someone is sent up high
To heaven or hell
Where they count good deeds
And sins like boys kissing boys
And girls loving girls
And teenagers are mothers
Without wanting to be
Where rounding up the number
Of terrorists and all evil
Leads to maybe trillions
Or billions but who knows?
There could be more
Corrupted and bad