“I Arise In The Morning Torn Between A Desire To Improve (or Save) The World And A Desire To Enjoy

to live without art is to live without breath.

paused mid breakdown after THAT scene from TLOU season 2 to document the psychic and physical damage that WILL inspire my next piece. ache in the back of my throat still hasn’t subsided. i pray for every poor soul who never saw it coming, or knew it was. a tragic, haunting, brawling masterpiece that will BE 2020s television legacy.

me, the motherfucker with over 50 abandoned works in progress: i have an idea

a child’s disclosure

i took notes around the corner

from the chainsaw’s roar,

while the lock was wrenched off

by its teeth.

and i wrote about the fear,

and the tears,

and the injustice of it all.

no safe space to call—

not home,

not him.

i watched puffy eyes,

matted hair,

tremors—

and i thought and thought.

but all i could do was take notes

around the corner

from the chainsaw’s roar,

while the lock was wrenched off

by its teeth.

Dead Poets Society

-1989

the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself

she’s a faint star in a cluster;

your eyes need time to adjust to the dark

before you can spot her.

but then, you can’t miss her.

you’ll map her coordinates

and check in every night,

watch her rise and fall

throughout the seasons

and twinkle beyond wisps of cloud.

she’ll be one in millions, billions, trillions?

but she’ll be yours.

Girls when they life starts to sound little bit too much like the fig tree analogy by Sylvia Plath

she is literally perfect…

sometimes i’m not put together. sometimes i’m not pretty. sometimes my words drip with the crudeness of bukowski and the bite of the primal woman beneath them. sometimes i’m broken and wheezing, or just hollow. as a poet, i won’t hide it. my writing follows me wherever i go. stoned, on a come down, in the thick of the healing and of the pain. i’m not palatable, no matter how you look at it. and that’s just too damn bad.