today I covered myself in temporary tattoos

I hate when the night's on fire,
when flames rise and light the day
and the sun unlit serves as but a reminder

this was supposed to be cathartic

but it's something of a mess
I only write when I'm sad
but poetry flows from my sadness
like ink from my veins.
It permeates the water like broken capillaries,
a blackened concoction of blessings and faith
a blackened conflagration of greeting cards and soiled linen.

I only write when I'm sad
and when I'm happy, I live
free of paper and ink and pen
free of paradox and hyperbole
of  sentence structure and rhyme scheme
when I write,
I give my life to the paper.
draining my veins of all their beauty,
and watch as the living slowly become the dead.

please don't try to be my mentor,
all my idols are dead.

give me two hands to rub for warmth

and one heart to keep me chilled
forgive me
forgive me
forgive me
my feet ache from walking on these bones
and kneading knives with my knuckles.

And I've grown bitter with this cold
and dumb with discontent.

and
and
and
I've never known a winter more frozen than this

i
dont
know
what
i
am
to
do

Sometimes I think they only pretend to believe in god

they flicker for a moment
then illuminate the galaxy as though they were false stars,
fit for no greater purpose than that of a court jester

sometimes I wish in poetry

and other times I write melodies in my head.

sometimes I kiss my sister goodbye
and other times I simply walk out the door.

I regret each action

mere moments after they unleashed unto the world.
and I cry most frequently in the afternoon,
usually to the tune of midday soaps.

sometimes I sleep with all my makeup on,
so when morning comes,
my colors have all run together
like the constant drip of some rust-ridden faucet.
other times,
I stain my skin with shades of soap
and bleach the day away. 

I've got one hand on the gas
and another in the burner
let's go bake a cake

summer, you are the sweetest

array of syllables to ever be uttered
you retrieve the dead from their bones,
and cut into being 7 new men
holding hands like identical little strangers.

I thank you for your kindness

I thank you for your poetry

I thank you for your freedom, as clear as cantaloupe.
This burden has been lifted
and I intern have floated up to heaven
rid of my earthly form,
to find solace in solitude.
and sweet, sweet surrender