in this angular evening
all edges and corners  
money
lashings of flattery
and scarlet-dripped trickery
strangle our love

Our bodies are not temples,
I will not be invaded as such.
We are ecosystems.
Made of grit, blood, and change.
Packed with multitudes of intricacy,
We love like gushing streams.
Wound like thorned bush.
Hurt by humanity like hunted prey.
As we burn, as we are cut down,
As we are wounded, crippled, abused,
We still grow.

Heaven rained on me,
I breathed in the petrichor,
Bathed in the downpour.

The deceased, at the time of his death
Contained fentanyl traces, and ****.
Yes, his death was unjust.
Raise a fist, if you must...
for St. George has now breathed his last breath.

You can always tell a self destructive writer
By their poetry

Because sometimes they are redundant
And other times they are expressing pain

But they always tell a story of being hurt
And locked into their own head

But this my dear, is why they write
Because the person in their head is trying to get out

Self destructive writers
Are usually dark

But when they are light
They tell you how perfect you are

So that you don't do the same thing
That they did to themselves

Self destructive writers
Don't want you to make their scars
On your arms

You’re much like the rain,
You can be soft or heavy,
Or kind to my drought.

I don't use sugar coated words in my sonnets since a considerable lot of you have diabetes.

I don't use salt loaded words in my sonnets since a considerable lot of you have hypertension.

I don't use acidic words in my sonnets since a considerable lot of you have gastric issues.

I will not use any words in my future sonnets since none of you are going to read them any way!