My best friend loves God a lot,
and I guess I do, too,
but it’s been a while since we’ve spoken,
and I’m not sure if he thinks about me as much anymore.
Nobody thinks we’re friends because I’ve made some decisions that divvy from what I might’ve been born to do,
but maybe he’ll understand I’m not a marriage counselor,
and my existence was never going to keep my parents together.

The best thing you can do for an artist
is break their heart.
The creative thrive when grasping for life,
when they’ve shut out the world and all
that’s left is a pen and paper,
or ivory keys to be brutalized.
The worst thing for a creative
is to confuse good with bad,
and God with themselves -
to start controlling more than they bleed
onto the canvas as they hum into the air.

If you were to marry,
I’d sit in the crowd,
but not with others amongst the pews.

I’d stand far away -
in the grass with the bugs,
and ponder of me and you.

They’d crawl up my legs,
and I’d scratch at my thighs -
then squeeze gently like you used to do.

Wondering what could have been,
perhaps better if not -
something slick I once thought was glue.

Now you’re not my lover,
a kinship I feel,
but my heart is still beating in blue.

Besides knowing
Everything about me, good and ugly,
She knows how to make cement a feather.
That’s the most invaluable trait
I could hope for in someone I share my soul.
Everyday I hope to be as impactful on her.

I used to
watch short films,
and dream of creating gorgeous
scenes that made people feel
deeper than they’ve ever,
like when I’d medal in a solo
after weeks of crying over sheet music,
but then I felt deeper than I’d ever,
and my brush has since ran dry.
My past passions would likely
return to me with less effort than
it initially took to acquire them,
but I’m unsure if that’s what is
best or I should pivot
into something else.

And tear out a page!
Another! Another!
Some get caught on the binding
**** up the thread!
See the glue on the edges
This is healing my head