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

You asked what I knew about you and I thought up a list of twenty things

I thought I could drink you away but I had to stop being so drunk on you first

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

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

If I was once the tallest mountain your love was the wind that eroded me to nothing

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