so stung with self pity
I realize I cannot really Write
anything if i haven't lived. and
i Haven't. because when i choose
Tragedy it is always in the name of quiet.
My silence tramples down the jungle grass,
And in the smudge of summer I keep
Everything to myself. I am still
clenching all my yellow chips
with tight fists. six weak suns
bite through both palms. and i Bleed,
and am proud of the blood. it's so stupid but
I want to be brave at being bad,
To be brave so bad it breaks me, but
i'm not brave or bad or breaking.
i'm just aimless with my aching, and
the Older I Get, the Harder That Is
To Hide. my life crusts over lonely and
i'm limp inside its husk. i really thought
I could make something beautiful of
the way i shake my shadow off, huh. and steal
that star and eat it too. well the joke's
on me. I have turned my air to arrows
and struck myself before anyone else could.
and if that's not the way it works,
then someone fucking show me so.