I want to release a book of my poetry, but I am pretty sure it would just be a bunch of love poems I've written to my respective exes, poems about how I hate myself, and ones where I swear I don't. That's actually not a bad title. Sure better than those ones that try to incorporate zen philosophy and a fucking table saw together.

She noticed my veins and how I don't like to articulate anything I haven't written down. The chance I might actually say something I mean instead of scripting carnivals for the crowd, has me shaking. 

I fucking hate clowns. And how everything has to be a joke. 

Nihilism tests your sense of humor and your will to live, do you have the strength to laugh at this mortal coil? Point and mock at it's might, how else do we survive this?

We don't. 

Not for long anyway. 

So don't trivialize that old stack of dusty poems covered in rose thorns and liquor stains. That scribbled saga is your life like it or not

She showed me a poem she had written about me, after showing her a poem I'd written about her. 

We both got really sad, but we both said thank you. 

I'm learning to accept my crinkled story as gospel.
Done trying to iron out pages already written
this happened
and there is still more to come.
An ellipsis of existence
(...)
a Great Perhaps
a blank check of potential, a
BIG
HEAPING
pile of
(…)

maybe.
All I have besides that is smoke clouds and broken glass, wood splinters and morning breath.

So I could use all the help that I can get

These days, my bones sound like creaking tree branches holding up a tire swing heart,
do you remember how it looked that summer when we were kids? 

Now,

it's weathered and splitting and the inside is working it's way out and that tree is dying because no one waters it anymore. 
I just weave my branches through strings of steel now, shaking the dust off melodic knots of flesh and sound, I am these dusty pages. I am the dust, and the ink upon them. That frayed tire, and that withered tree. The hum, and the silence.



The loneliness, and the feeling of it.