The last few months have been horrible
like wind next to your voice
there isn’t any connection but lightning
the whole point is to do better
than the ones that don’t have control
the crowd put a border around you
someone will encourage you to just give up
You’re being buried under thousands
of other people talking.

It’s better safe than sorry. Say “Hello,
welcome” Ask them questions; don’t argue
You are not the best at this but try

Set up a stream. Watch it set.
someone may join, keep going.
even when things go wrong.

Don't get me wrong,
I'll hold your silence
That you gave them.

It's not my noise to
Expel, knowing dams
May release a torrential
Frond that I now choose
Not to facilitate.

You needed me,
But I needed you
Much more, but
If I wasn't awake

This might be too familiar,
All the lights are on, it's my fault.
I fell asleep again, too awake,
Leaving lonely sheets to bake
In a morning light no one appreciates
We're both gone, and there's no one
Who knows your power unfolding
Across hapless subjects of your
Own design.

We will be erased.
At least to me, every new innocence broken,
Crashing against rocks of jealousy, tied to
A dock built out of false promises to myself
Begging the question, how do I begin again?

You thought it'd be so easy to love a girl made of paper—
Crumple her mind in your fist, leave your mark on her vacant skin.
You were threatened by her lightness, by the staunch white;
Told yourself she'd be better for the splotch of color, even thank you one day.
Her edges would be thin, barely breaking skin if she cut you back—a quick sting and it's over,
no lasting scars.
Little did you know ink flows through her veins—
Miles and miles of words sharper than your scissors raging through arteries,
Pounding in her ears, crashing like waves against her teeth.
You thought it'd be so easy to burn a girl made of paper—
You tore her open only to drown.

echoes
land                                 moving
           somewhere
tied                                  to
              ­                                     morning mist.

morning,
                         she's
string


             that
  

                    nothing
is          two
                   bottles

of linen

               But, whiskey-----

I'm sick of hearing about drunken men
Slurring their thoughts out through the tips of their pens
And the history of poetry had been bleached as white
As the parchment on which their poems were printed