This is a poem for people
who have turned self-destruction
into an art form, who
rip through lives like
serrated knives,
people with
glass teeth and hearts
even more fragile.
This is a poem for the martyrs of
philosophy, who stir madness
like sugar into their tea,
who speak exclusively in
Kafka quotes and
fortune cookies.
This is a poem for lost travelers,
compassless and tired who
walk alone for a lifetime
cleverly disguised as
a single moment.
This is for the artists
who paint entire novels about
confused platonic heartache and
destroy relationships as often
as they destroy canvas,
who start crying if you ask them
about their future, not because
the concept frightens them, but because
it will only ever be
a concept.
This is a poem for the believers
whom I admire, the ones who cut out
bible verses like coupons,
buy-one-get-one-free morality,
the ones who will never
pull the nickel cross
off their necks no matter how
bad life gets.
This is a poem for the boys who always
come back, who never really left,
who sit below me in all kinds of weather,
who hold down my soul,
who are my anchor.
