here we go again
the feeling of not feeling
the music without melody
the poem without metre

it all swims in my head devoid of emotion
these stanzas, those paragraphs, those conversations, that knowledge
they swirl and they shimmer but where has the tone gone
those non-verbal shades just evaporate like water

dickens, tolkien, tolstoy, plath
mozart, sheeran, queen, presley
van gogh, hirst, dalí, ito
nothing but noise when your heart isn't in it

now down some pills
write it down
go to sleep
and repeat this tomorrow.

will i be remembered?
humbly i offer this forget-me-not
keep it in your back pocket

the past is fading
the future is grey
i am condemned to live in the present
slogging away
exhausted
too cowardly to pass on

And there it is.

The vengeance.

Bubbling, broiling, red-hot rage buried below the surface.

It feels like magma in the pit of my stomach. It bursts and breaks, a tsunami encompassing my Isle.

No longer can I separate the self from the sea. No longer can I keep my head above the magma. No longer can I breathe my precious, stoic oxygen.

It rears its ugly head and I, perhaps missing the monster, dive willingly, confidently into it.

I hope you think of my lips when you kiss hers. I hope you see my chestnut brown in her sapphire blues. I hope you moan my name every time she tastes your nectar.

Choke.

I like to write in free verse,
And my poems don't have much rhythm
I don't know iambic pentameter
And I don't really think about structure

I change my metre rapidly
Because I like to throw people off in
Hopes that
It'll make them think about
What the words mean
Instead of about the restrictions

I often decide not to rhyme my words
Because "love, my pure dove" is less genuine
Than "love is my poison"
Or "love is my jailer".

I know I won't get high grades for my art,
And I know I won't be very famous
But I don't care about likes or biographies
I care about writing my truth.