This is watermark divination of a drying fenceó
posts lined up perfectly, but drying without a sense of unity.
Where the sun prefers to shine,
as the shaman reads,
its just playing favorites.
A poem for a friend who thinks too much:
so you can remember and not yearn.
Heís the twitchy typeó
feels like the cells beneath his skin never sleep.
So what is he really losing when his teeth chew away?
maybe when he falls and his legs refuse to move,
heíll have an excuse to lie there
instead of dragging himself with just his fingernails.
Canít keep writing the same poem
about all the times when I forget
all the reasons I have to be happy
It stays inside.
Burning deep holes within the pit of my stomach.
Itching at the end of my throat,
screaming at me to let it go;
to let it become the ugliness itís supposed to be.
Because after it fills you,
and escapes you,
leaving an awful taste in your mouth,
itís said that you will feel a lot better.
But yeah I never throw up
Words didnít have much time for me today
I like to think about the person who will eventually love me,
as I take another sip and then another bite.
I socialize a bit so I donít come off as sad.
I wonder what sheíll look like,
what sheíll like about me,
what Iíll like about her.
It doesnít taste as bad anymore,
and I can feel myself getting drunker.
The sooner the better
Not asking enough of me.
I could give the world to you.