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Literature Text
feel the sorrow of these heavy clouds crashing onto me
nostalgia grips my throat; i said, "please, won't you let me leave"
walk into the funeral home, don't know where to put my hands
regret flows through the floorboards on which i stand
this guilt is a weight i can't stand to bear
yet here i am, meeting your eyes as i choke on air
every time you told me sorry,
and asked, "do you forgive me?"
comes flooding back,
& all i ask
is that you understand:
i forgive you,
& i'm sorry, too
i should've been there when the world turned its back on you
i know that i can't blame myself
or hope to change the past,
but i'll stand here, if you need me,
for as long as we'll last
nostalgia grips my throat; i said, "please, won't you let me leave"
walk into the funeral home, don't know where to put my hands
regret flows through the floorboards on which i stand
this guilt is a weight i can't stand to bear
yet here i am, meeting your eyes as i choke on air
every time you told me sorry,
and asked, "do you forgive me?"
comes flooding back,
& all i ask
is that you understand:
i forgive you,
& i'm sorry, too
i should've been there when the world turned its back on you
i know that i can't blame myself
or hope to change the past,
but i'll stand here, if you need me,
for as long as we'll last
Literature
Ghosts
Those ghosts
drink coffee with me in the morning
and wrap their bony hands around my neck
all the same
I don't know how to tell you
that your complaining is weighing me down
because being a poet
is being the best at complaining
that you can possibly be
(We take our bruises, scraped knees
and broken hearts and rearrange
words to make it sound like
we are not complaining, but actually
we really are
when you get to the core of it
We're just experts at hiding it)
It's funny how this just means
that I'm tired of myself
I can complain to you about
those goddamn ghosts that make
my hands sweat and my heart race
and who make me take the long wa
Literature
i
i as a thing with a body
must feel endlessly.
opening, blooming,
closing, wilting:
i flower
and the sky falls upon me.
i am the root, the stem, the rain.
when this bedrock allows
for no more following --
then i must lead,
if i wish to breathe.
i as a thing with a body
have no lungs to speak of
and must compensate
with twigs,
and pixels,
and distance without schematic
with falling, for a lilac while
and ending things before they begin.
when i am hurt
i must not be hurt.
i as a thing with a body
must never be hurt:
to be hurt is surely to die,
and to die is to be unknown.
to be unknown is to have roots
but no stem
no petal.
i
Literature
everything has a dark side
i wish to be a creature of scandal,
of red lipstick and cigarette smoke;
i want to be flora-veined and
fauna-mouthed, with train tracks
on my wrists and
knife wounds in my
mannequin ribcage --
when i die, feed me
to the butterflies.
when the butterflies die,
eat them.
Suggested Collections
new series. don't know how long it'll be or how long it'll take me to get there. it might be a lifelong thing.
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They say dead men tell no tales. But the tales they told while living live on.