If nature were so flattered by poems written with itself in mind as people are we would be moving mountains

Under the weight of life I forget how to breathe and I feel suffocated I hesitantly make peace with the world

Everyday brings a new death in three words give or take Some days I drown

Hope in another form but no fewer letters and I’ve been hoping for these past eight years so I’ll just keep on

I’ve kept my eyes closed most of these past eighteen years because I find it just as dark

I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can

I would write a sweet poem and title it with your name if I loved you at all

I was like a rain cloud over a small garden and dammit if you weren’t that garden so full of flowers that I fell in love

I write sharp words with a sharper knife on page after page of what might as well be the skin of my back

I see no joyous rebirth in spring for autumn will bring another death I see no joyous rebirth

Everyday I visit the only writers block I know to hone my words and wit and help them cut deeper into the skin