I think I was mistaken about something along the road.
I think I saw stop signs as signals to go.

I think I need to go.

Is it sad to say that you depress me?
I don't know how to apologize for that.
Every time I think about loving you I want to be underwater.
I want to be somewhere where the lights are dim.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

They sing songs
Of desert gypsies
And chain smoking bulls,

Of mirages that kiss
Your throat
And linger quietly

Waiting,
While you quickly catch
Your crumpling breaths,

Drunken wisps
Of sandpaper snow
Flickering and coarse—

Palms warm to the touch.

You think it's so easy to forgive you?
You tore me apart,
fragment by fragment.
You watched me burn.
You mocked me.
Why should I forgive you?
You are so full of yourself,
you can't see what's happening around you,
you choose to ignore it.
Now you dare smile at me,
bat those fake eyelashes of yours
and ask me,
'Why do you look so sad?''
I felt like screaming at you,
like telling you that you are the cause of everything.
I didn't.
I just smiled sadly before walking away.