i hope in a different life,
you would—at least—be happier,
even if that means trading my only chance
in this life of knowing you exist.

No, no,
this isn't real. My eyes have deceived me for the last time!
[Woe is me! Miserable woman that I am! Who will save this body undergoing this death?]
You can take your food of gods and shove them in someone else's throat; for I, yes, for I will not have you.

Deliciously bored
Staring from a window, alone
Midwinter, sunday afternoon
Trees bare their skeletal form to the rain
That runs in rivulets down glass
Scientifically designed to keep the draft out,
Nowhere to be, so I may as well be here
Deliciously bored as I was when a child
Though then I wanted it all to happen,
The world to rush at me, engulf me so
I could drink it in, experience, digest, evaluate
But now it just passes me by, time to waste
Rather than worrying about wasted time
So for now I will enjoy this feeling
Nose pressed against a window pane
Leaving breath patterns on the glass
That is scientifically made to keep the draft out.

I cannot
express enough
the importance
of a rough draft.
It may be
hidden away today
but one day it may
get the chance
to be published
and shine on.

I’m never satisfied with you
No matter how much I try and change it I just can’t get a sense of fulfillment
Never wanting to show it
Not wanting anyone to see

I started writing this about my poems
It’s only now I realize it’s about you
Still not sure what I’ll do about it
I guess the world will have to wait and see

I need no help, I am not bent
I am mailed for rent at the expense of those living Lent
My morality is spent and in these eyes my life is descent
The strife of cries that beseech these lies
Foundation of diplomacy denies these vies of chroma key composition
Of simple disposition where any volition lay green in broadcasted condition
The keys behind me lasted for more eras than forecasted
Bad weather bombastic and casted for severance and grace
The simple mace masted as pace for which they grow for taste
To show what they know for the living paper and paste
To taper the waste that flow from the caper
And expect the maker of another scribbled paper to say,
"You did it, you need no help after today".

I thought I was God,  
I was brought-up-by-poetry,
I'd go toe2toe,  
reach each blow4blow,
oh, & thank you, for blowing me,
I clawed up
afraid of heights
from the sights just from growing me,
yup, I fought and I shot up,
& yup I got caught
I: all for naught.,
&all that I bled.

I wasn't brought up this dead,

a sick stick em' up kid.
with a "thank you for sewing me"
a black-and-blue hue
again thank you for knowing me,
l learned each low elbow so low,
been up/down + below
  but again just so you know
the lowest of low was never<as low as

me.