you try not looking despite your curiosity
try to otherwise
until you make up your mind / to learn to fly
What hierarchy / suggests / your impending / fruitions?
because all people everywhere / know that knowing causes / the greatest sorrow
to me you are / dark sky moon / you are too bright to fully consume / oh you pull at me / through & thru
It’s just a matter / of how many layers / of “me” you release
what good / is the awe / of stars / if we see / only that / we are / worlds apart?
Sick / Sick / Sick / Sick / Sick
who cares / what thinking / matters when making / matters most?
and / looking / to the sky / w/ / a b / -reath / of supremely / real / air
As darkness / inclines itself toward / the stars / There will be a / breath of air / That will become / the exhale of our united sigh
the more you wait / the more you drown in time // so just smile
This writing is less the craft heavy and prosody poised work that keeps process hidden behind closed doors of the poet’s writing studio and their intellectual hesitance, and more the freestyle, live over home-made beats push for moments of flow.
Less building a perfectly sturdy house with all the bells and whistles and more finding shelter before a storm hits.
… moment spent beside / the self upon which my / self wrests presented / me with such an alarm / I could not //
… because I am a fool.
I work hard to ignore the critical voice in my head telling me that poems need to be finished and should never appear before a reader’s eyes without first having gone through many revisions and multiple workshop partners.
But that ain’t livin.
ink that manifested that poem is a stain on an old cotton shirt
So I nabbed it to write poems on.