Your poetry is like cinematography in my head.
How do you do it?
How do you point the formatting like a camera,
like you’re panning for gold,
and discovering something precious
so deep and real
just with the position of your italics?

I told you this,
and then you reciprocated,
saying,

I, on the other hand, use word choice
I listened and heard your intention
I choose and commit to one
like an undying promise
imbuing that choice with all the meaning I can.

You tell me you noticed,
and I suddenly had no words.

Happiness:
The state of being happy.
But

What is happy? –
Feeling pleasure (content).
But

Am I happy?

I see you;
Every day –
With another

And; I am happy?

I am pleased:
By your radiant smile.

Yet why?
Am I not happy –

I have:
An urge;
A burning desire;
A –
Requirement.

To feel pain.

Is this what it is,
To be happy?

To shed blood every day;
To drown in agonising pain;
To fake; every; single –
Emotion.

Then: I don’t want you
To be happy
I can.
You can’t –

Be happy: –
With another;
I am happy to see you happy.

I don't know the rules. If I go looking
for grace and find it, what will grace

be but penance for my past, a silver
sinew-thread wrapping 'round old
            wrongs, gray hair for the
                        fickle.

I've naught but want for sweet release
from this history. The bombs ignored,
            repeating in gramophone static
                        dripping stiff

as wet bamboo. I remember someone
once sang here, once strung together

chords so sweet they rang like peace-
bells beneath cloudless sky. They've
            rang the bell upon my jaw and
                        done no wrong.

It's not so much unlike one's curiously
cold reception at a funeral. The cold
            and rain ****** at the skin
                        during graveside hymnal.

As long as the earth continues
its stony breathing I will breathe.

That which I cannot help but do.
Stuck between boulders, I sing.

When it stops, I will shatter back
into gravity. Into quartz.

I'M TIRED OF TEARING MYSELF DOWN
BUT I CAN'T GET THE KNIFE OUT OF MY BACK
OR MOVE THE GUN FROM MY TEMPLES
OR THE BAD THOUGHTS OUT OF MY HEAD
AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO

hello, i am a
writer, i am happy.
look at me smile.
look at me,
look at me—

no it’s not, you
dumb **** shut up,
you’re worthless,
you’re worthless,
you think you can be happy—

i am sad sometimes.
all the time—
half the time—
my lifetime—
where is the lie?

i am.
i am.
okay, i’ll be fine,
it’s fine,
okay, okay?
okay. yes, yes,
yesyesyes

look at me, i am
worthless stupid
******* amazing
shut up and look,
look at me don’t,

i don’t care i
don’t care i don’t
love you yes i do
i don’t care of course
it’s all i think about

stop stop stop,
don’t look at me,
i am too great,
too great, look,
look, i am on top,
the world is mine—

only in my head
only in my head
only in my head
shut up, shut up,
be quiet, i am tired!

leave me alone.
i don’t want to be alone.
help me be alone,
go away,
please.

please.
please.
please.

[…I don’t know what you mean.]

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing.”

*where is the lie?

My thinking is in bold,
but my words in lower-case.

She dreams in italics,
but,
unfortunately,
speaks in CAPITALS.

In mouth, put-
choo-choo kazoo chomp chomp YUM!
Mmmm MMMMMMmmm.
Whosagoodbaby!?
Whosagoodbaby!?*

The infant hears,
wondering if all adults talk this way,
chuckling to himself, the ridiculousness tickling his vibrating mind
looking on at the goofy giant babbling  gibberish
who seems oddly ecstatic
to feed colorful mush.
The child contemplates the intricacies of communicating
the smelly in his shorts.