Isn’t it funny how
Earth, forged from the universe
Will die by our hands?

don't you find it funny
how desperate we are to feel?
— what a great story!
(i cried eleven times)

It seems I can only write about love.
Which is weird because I am completely alone.
There is no one in the world who I want to hug
And not a single person, place, or thing I can call home.

Maybe it's that I am writing for someone else?
A stranger who needs to read loving words.
I think I write for everyone but myself.
I can’t pretend that being this lonely doesn’t hurt.

I think this is irony, but I am not sure.
My life feels pitiful and stupid.
There is not much more I can endure.
Perhaps love is just not something for which I am suited.

Alas, I will continue to write.
Because it is the only thing I can do.
My silly little poems give me life.
Even though reading my beautiful words make me blue.

(Before Covid 19)

I distance you
Because I hate you!

(After Covid 19)

I distance you
Because I love you!

Fact is stranger than fiction.
Quentin sits for days trying to think of a plot,
As dazed and twisted as his.
And should the Tiger King take Quentin under his wing,
I am sure that Quentin's mouth will be searching for teeth.
(but then again, don't you think Quentin is a tad bit
old?)
Benevolent monarch, with peasants made of fur.
Boldy he strays upon a kingdom never his.
And the peasants,
They have no choice
Have no voice,
Nothing but the strength to look the Tiger King's
Advisor in the eye
as they say
"Goodbye".

i'm doing
this
for me

right?

i don't need
your
opinion
to know
that i am
valid

right?

i am capable
of deciding
what
i want

right?