i find more comfort in streetlights than the cold hearth of home.
will there ever be a day when my words mean enough for you to consider that maybe (just maybe),
i needed something more than your words, skin, being
to see a purpose in my words, skin, be-ing. because before i bought into your broken narrative of my perfection, i accepted my futility, but you, in your attempt to fix nature,
tore apart the remedy of oblivion that i have fed myself for years before
does it take stained bathroom tiles
to convince you
that it’s not
the air that you dispel from your lips should start meaning something.
nature nurtured me into nothingness,
but that doesn’t mean you should too.
woman graced you with breath, so
why are you afraid of the feminine from which you were created?
gold does not exist
to complement your futile mind.
you are worth more
than a flower to a yearning bee
the flower knows its value
and that’s how she convinces
him of it too
love, love yourself
one day you’ll wake
from it all
beneath it all
all that you tire and hurt from
-words to a flower child
broken dead cement and grey
petals are romantic because you
can’t help but wonder
what they once
the setting sun will rise
I once held on mere words to prove that I
was worth the fragments of your thoughts that once
fell from the depth I once saw on the pile
of forgotten list of lovers you liked
to keep away from the pens of poets.
Ink and paper were all I could keep from
the cold burning of life, death, heaven, you–
forever in the stones of yesterdays.
There is nothing
after death but the
romance of the Void
and eternal sleep.