Routine

Our 16-year-old
cat is on the
floor
licking his
nonexistent balls
he rolls around in
playful glee
as if
he is
still a kitten

I sit here
on my couch
& groan
about
routine

Scanning the Spines

Libraries in my mind

I’m scanning the spines
and all they want to do
is burn it down

Enjoy the

Captured in silence
multi-syllables of self
expressionism

Note to Self

Spill forth
never mind the carpet
never mind your clothes
spill forth

let it out
never mind pretense
never mind offenses
let it all come out

you’re doing damage
to your brain
your head
is getting soft

you’re doing damage
to your heart
holding
it all inside

you are a stifled geyser
ready to blow
you could be a beautiful star
instead you implode

you feel the pain
deep in your gut
but
you never trust it

you feel the knife
rusting in between
your ribs
and you focus on it

you forget that
you are a mountain
that you can move
things with your mind

you ignore that
you are important
from matter you came
and you will return

yet you matter
in multiverses
you are a stone
that cannot be displaced

you could be a beautiful star
yet you choose to implode

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The Gift

Afterlife
before Christ
what is it I’ve been
doing with my time

rewind
speed ahead
why is it I’ve been
losing all my mind

upset
unsettled
never at rest, a hole
always left in pieces

regret
no reset
wondering what could be
what hasn’t happened yet

unclear
when end is near
allotment of time
is not equally distributed

wondering the weight
of worry
how to measure
the stone on chest

how to receive
the wish
before
the breath

how to alleviate
the pain
wrapped around
the gift

Subjective

Your art
is better than
my heart

this subjectivity
is killing me

Prints Behind

The truth
seeps out of me
in sweaty inkblots
I try not
to make a mess
but I always
leave prints behind

Suffocating Shapes

I don’t
need somewhere else
to be, change scenery
don’t need someone else to mirror
image

I need
those around me
a need to surround me
displace these suffocating shapes
faceless

Desire
to be nameless
unknot these balloon strings
so that I may float on to some
purpose

Autopsy Results

Every poem I write
is a plea for help,
formatted & flowery

Divided as it is,
every line is a cry
for some attention

Every word is a faux;
misguided synonyms
for what I truly feel

The results are in,
predictably the same;
each time I dissect my heart

Intro

I want to write
you a poem
& title it “Intro”
so that you know
there’s more
to follow