when the wandering writes for the first time

will someone teach me
to put my mind into words
(and not into my skins)?
because it’s been too long since
i wrote poetry,
and i don’t know if it’s because
i stopped feeling
or if i stopped trying to feel
or if i started
feeling too much altogether.
whiteness is too loud and bland
for ink,
so can you please sit and drown
out the light with your darkness?


a house party at 11 pm

i’m sorry, my love,i don’t mean to pry
but have you ever been so lost that you,
in a room full of people and music,
can only seem to focus on the faint pounding
you feel in your ears (that have long stopped hearing)?

your type

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
a phase?

a eulogy

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.