as I clutch contempt
for those that don’t know what they have.
Even if it is grey,
or gone.
I carry myself, small,
singing pig-bone cellos
about why
purple will make me happy—
sixteen avenues,
all directions—
drawn and quartered.
My self-awareness is a sin,
my self-awareness is an automatic bone
in the throat of something on the verge
of being something cold and beautiful.
If I knew what to expect,
I could catch it
in all of my arms.
sixteen avenues,
all directions—
drawn and quartered.
My self-awareness is a sin,
my self-awareness is an automatic bone
in the throat of something on the verge
of being something cold and beautiful.
If I knew what to expect,
I could catch it
in all of my arms.
But the mystery is heavier
than the weight of not knowing what I have.
Imagine me,
taught by tragedy.
poetry is pornography for the soul.
If I can lift my eyes
to the sky,
lift all my arms
to the ground.
Vanity leaves you sleepless;
it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy
to an otherwise undetermined life.
than the weight of not knowing what I have.
Imagine me,
taught by tragedy.
poetry is pornography for the soul.
If I can lift my eyes
to the sky,
lift all my arms
to the ground.
Vanity leaves you sleepless;
it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy
to an otherwise undetermined life.