Tell me something real.
Tell me something that matters.
Tell me that there are more stars than there are bad men,
and that in this place at this time,
there are fewer bad men than there are freckles on my skin.
Tell me that my world will change
and that my life will change with it,
and that the fight in me will resolve into peace.
Tell me that I’m real.
Tell me that I matter.



You tried to tame this wild life, and it fought unfairly, as feral things do.
The current was rough and the tide consumed you;
Discarding your remains in vomit
and shame
and assumption.

And one day a stranger called you from the sky
or the soil
or the sea;
And you were warm on her skin;
And you sang her to sleep.


There’s a poem in me today; I know it. There’s a poem about a smile which makes my chest ache and a corpse somewhere that barely resembles a body and a loss that I’ll never truly know. 

There’s a poem in me about a man that scares me and a nervous response that I regret each time it forces my face into a smile.

There are novels in me about lives unlived and restless staring at a blank sheet of paper as the stories fight amongst each other instead of preserving their selves.

There are worlds in me that you’ll never know and souls that I will never touch and lovers that will never meet without me. 

And yet I file away at the edges of the days until they are dull and blunt.