Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

it's such a shame



you were in front of me



and I couldn't recognise you.

When rooms sleep and birds carry heartache to trees, when light
is gone and peace is woven into dreams: I will build myself a nest
and unfold the poem I stole. I will taste with care the words you
chose, and pretend you wrote them for me.

(I will love, I will love, I will love)

War no more. It kills millions and millions and millions. It negates the best in us:  kindness;  compassion:  and most of all, universal love. All those who ****, whether consciously or unwittingly, are mercenaries. Those who never pull a trigger, never drop a bomb, never bayonet a brother profit from atrocities. They make machine guns and sell them. They build bombers and sell shares of stock on Wall Street. Christ turned water into wine. CEOs of killing machines turn blood into fortunes, then build mansions made of murders. They would rather take a life than save one.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Poetry is a tree.
Do believe in me.
Has her roots at sky
and wings to fly.
Words her teardrops.
Rhyme her crime.
Feelings her healings.
Thoughts her knots.
Poetry is a tree.
Every morning kissing me.
Let our Love be.
Let her set me free.
She is a tree at sea.
Sailors all we.
Ship the world we live.
In poetry i do believe.
Like a statue of nature,
has a mind so mature,
a heart so delicate,
oh yes, in silence we communicate.
Poetry is a tree.
Give her dreams to be
and you will suddenly see,
mountains having sea.
I am in love with poetry.
We have a lighting chemistry.
Star is her middle name
oh me, a lover of her game.

...Is terrifying.
Every line feels like a judgement.
...Is beautiful.
Every line feels like a symphony.
...Is art.
Every line feels like a masterpiece.
...Is pain.
Every line feels like a heartbreak.
...Is love.
Every line feels like a dedication.
...Is me.
Every line, every word, every letter feels like my own.