I chore by woozy by smoking everything in sight
I chore by medicating and letting the sides affect me
crying at roadkill by owning taking up space not taking care

I burden by poetry by reading you poetry
talking too fast remembering too little
by walking alone     unsafe

I chore by panicking at white trucks and appetite suppressants I didn’t ask for
crying (always) at eight years at five years at 24 months
at the always that keeps shrinking away from me

Now I chore astoundingly
by decluttering by choring myself cleaning and painting and feeling alive alive alive!

Though touching is not a burden to you. Groping is not a burden.
No-chore kissing and hands on my ***
whenever and too much to be frank
give me my boundaries my no's

But you should know
I am not a burden a task to complete dead weight snag hitch knot Loving
me is not a chore.

I wrote in a poem once that you didn't understand about a no one that you saw as yourself.
I felt your beating heart then and knew you now it's true
I can't touch you but it's no matter.

i want to stand in torrential storms and scream
until my lungs become ash and the rain has eroded the world around me
~who wants to join?

The words that you read
Eyes that see, have the power to receive
The mind conceives, as it wants to believe

A face, a form and a surface ready to be scorned. Features, edges, texture, lines- all part of something bright in spite of putting up a fight. Restless, stoic, agitated are words to combine in order to express the world which I call mine.

Sitting, staring or a mere passerby thinks as though I'm a puzzle to entangle and intertwine but rather I am a piece that has paid her lease in order to attain what they call peace.

An art called by hardly any two; strange and displeasing said by a few. Deep down I know I'm remarkable even if the flicker of intensity from my eyes are invisible.

In the beginning the sky was cold butter,
hard and riddled with kernels of corn,
which, as the world heated, popped:
And thus the clouds were born.