I am being drawn and quartered
By each expectation pulling away,
Tugging at my fragile sense
Of identity (if there ever was one)
Until suddenly, oh no! So suddenly
I am in pieces, and each person has only
A part of myself, that is all I can give—
I gave myself the death sentence, they’re
Only the horses that tear away my
Skin.

As they bolt away, I wonder
How far they will go until they
Realize
That I am no longer Whole.

I sit here sinking
Into the dirt,
Without feeling because I am on
The precipice of numbness,
A mere step away from screaming.

Don’t call me pretty.

I am not a delicate
Rose to be plucked
At your fleeting desire.

𝘕𝘰.

I am
Visceral
Venomous
Vibrant.

I am not a willow
Bending in the time
Of your gusts.
A pastel shade
Of pink, meant to be
Seen, but not noticed.

𝘕𝘰.

Don’t you realize?

𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦.

the clouds float with a sense of melancholy this day,
leaving a lingering sensation of unease echoing below
the well of my insomnia...

the eclipse has cast a dulling shade upon my adulthood.
Where I once felt the ember of passion,
there now lays bare a garden of wilting lavender...

Divine embers illuminate the rotting sun stripes

Shining down against the pale patronage of trodden moss

Entangled beneath the shattered face and wraps around the rivers bend

And gorges itself on the pebbled trail that crescendo rings by growing stone

Laid by night and day the frail men who earned a pittance and suffer the same

Paved the way for ambitious men whose curvature gives them pass
By sheath and saddle of foul, of steed, stallion, and sacrifice  

From up the way where the grass does crease, draped in sapphire satin pleats

Where water wash the overflow, of dazzling scarlet undertones

Diffracting a brilliant whisper through the meadows and bending stems under throes

The snaking of a haunting breeze suffocates the boldest beasts

The subterranean systems whipping silt twists this flattered path

Craning against the wicker bark, stone and shard caress the mast

And carry splintered serenity shaved down to the soot at last

The rise of sparks and oxygen ignite the way for weary pass

Stone is overthrown and carried undertow towards and onwards its mark, unknown

these days without a dad are strange
in ways I wish I cared more about
things are suddenly easy to let go of
when you are tired and
you finally loosen your grip,
an ode to visceral reactions
things are simple to never need back
if nothing seems real
in the first place
it's never even that deep
just that picturing a future
seems more like
getting hopes up
there is an important distinction
to be separate from  "looking forward to something"
life grows disheartened when these two are confused
used too closely to tell
is this realism? or a ****** distraction
from the fact that
I wouldn't mind dying