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i covered myself
in words
like seeds

i prayed to gods
i don’t believe in

your goodbye
was not a coffin
it was soil

and i
am learning
to bloom
Grief
is a knalled winter tree
barren, as its leaves have long since fell
to mix into the Earth
to make new life for the Spring
it is a painful process,
animalistic and wild
sometimes you do not know
if the tree will stand
tall for another year
but you will
you will carry life again
and it will be green
and lush
As i fly above angry waves
Dark and deep with my fears
I see my life flash before me
Memory after memory
Lost over the sea of darkness

I know not the path i will go
The wind blows me every which way
I struggle against her breath
When finally i fall into this sea

The darkness swallows me
I am alone
I cannot see
Here my mistakes taunt me
Here they are waiting
The other day I wrote this about my dad, I was thinking, “He must be scared of death.” Reading this over again now I’ve realized, I don’t know who I was thinking about.
We were told freedom would make us artists.
We were told freedom would set us free.
But freedom made us consumers—
scrolling, streaming, drowning in plenty.

Peak content.
Peak noise.
Attention—the last currency.
And we are broke.

Then came the machine.
Infinite. Bespoke. Frictionless.
The tribe dissolved.
The story fractured.
Each of us—
a society of one.

Do not mistake this for culture.
Culture bleeds.
Culture resists.
Culture divides.
This is mimicry.
This is slop.
Outliers cribbed, stripped,
and rebranded before the ink dries.

This is the singularity.
Not awakening.
Collapse.
Not tribe.
Not ritual.
The machine as tribe.
Self-satisfaction—tribe enough.

But listen—
creativity still breathes.
Not to be seen.
Not to trend.
But to testify.
To mark the ruins.
To scratch in the stone:

A human was here.

Do you remember?
I probably needed a hug
but instead my father got arrested
but instead I lost contact with one of my best friends
but instead I'm failing math class
but instead my parents don't think I'm mature enough for any social media
but instead my mental health is plummeting
I probably need a hug
but its obvious I'm not getting one any time soon
Why breathe when you know you will die,
When you're drowning, why do you attempt to breathe?
The water ,icy and cold like a spike to the chest,
As the water slowly fills your lungs ,burning .suffocating.
When you are bleeding out why do you put pressure on the wound,
Why do you push as you watch the crimson slip through the cracks of your palm?
The blood spilling out. Bleeding. Dying
So next time you ask me why i love when i cant be loved,
Ask yourself why are you breathing when you know you will die?
idgaf
A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwmDj1yF6LA
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I do my poetry.  I just put up a video of a poetry reading I did at the Mason City Public Library.
My books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and Sleep Always Calls, are available on Amazon.
She kept her freak hidden
Well out of sight
In the back of her closet
And only let it out at night
To crawl up on her bed
And climb into her head
Then it would
See through her eyes
our peak in love was like a white jumbo jet
huge and bright floating high in the blue sky
clouds beneath like soft pillows, endless,
we saw nothing of the earth, only the vast above,
and we were both pilots, both steering one fragile pretty thing
toward some imagined destination,
and then, fire, sudden, merciless fire
falling, tearing, breaking, burning,
down in flames it came,
ashes on the ground, ashes in our mouths,
and nothing left,
as if we had never flown,
as if we had never been.
A love that once flew high and bright ends suddenly in fire and ash, leaving nothing behind.
I gave you all my overflow
   but you said it wasn’t enough.
So, I gave you more pieces of me
   but to you, it still wasn’t enough.
Then, I gave you half of me
   but still, it wasn’t enough.
So, I gave you everything,
   everything, and all of me
   and yet, it still wasn’t enough.
Now, I have nothing left to give,
   nothing left even for myself
But still you claim,
   I didn’t give you enough.
Sometimes no matter how much we give, there are people we cannot satisfy even when we lose ourselves giving. But the problem isn't that you are not enough, the problem is you were giving it to the wrong people.
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