Not even here is Knowledge a thing of intuition
But the procedure followed key by key
Into the river and out of the drain
Like a lamprey seething on a deer

Should we wake her,
Or do the defiler's whispers eat at your ear
Do the wallops within you complete something
You didn't know needed to be found

A golfer eats a melon and yearns for forgiveness
As she knows, it’s not the smaller
Unforgiving swallowtail pictured
Am I what you imagined

When you wished upon a star
Never to be seen again but on the pages of
Typing writers blocking my every thought
As mysteries unravel me

they say it is
a canvas,
                          a frame,
                                       a brushstroke.
                                                                              but it is a cage.

    beauty,  
                they say,  
      is symmetry,  
                           precision,  
        lines drawn tight —  
                               perfect,  
                               as if that means anything.  

a curve here,
a shadow there,
exactly right,
exactly wrong —
                                       the rules of a game
                                       no one remembers starting.

      who made the rules?
                 who decided  
                      what belongs in the frame,  
                           what is worthy  
                       of the gaze?  

does the brush bleed?
             is the color pure?
is it still art if it spills —
                          all over,
shattering the borders?

they say
"if you can't see it,
it's not there,"
                                       but can you see the space?
                                                                 the chaos
                                                    between the lines?

art —  

you say it is  
     "a statement,"  
           "an expression,"  
           "a revolution."  
                   but only the kind that fits.

art.

we call it beautiful
             only when it
                          fits
                          in the frame,
                                       the one we've built —
                                                                 to trap it.

   so what happens
         when the frame shatters?  
                    what happens then?

So many things that
Words can never say
                •
Too many words that
Just get in the way
                •

isn't the night such an abstract thing?
why are you my first thought in the morning?
is it possible to get so attached
to a person that you've never even touched?
i don't even know how to say what i feel
everything i experience feels weirdly unreal
yet here you are, reading this as we speak
i think you've figured out that my personality isn't for the weak
would you find it strange
if i wished that i was able to change
the way that you look at yourself so you could
adore yourself like how i would?
maybe i'm just another hopeless romantic
using poetry as an escape, my words chaotic
just like everything i do, although i try to refuse
how does it feel to be my muse?

I love U, n U love me too
This world now feels like just us two.
This day felt like a big mess
But happiness' the biggest mass
I love the things U do for me
Like, that is just too good to be
I don't know how it happened. Y?
But I say, I don't wanna die