Deafened ears 
Silent eyes
Rippled waters—
Reflecting murky skies

What remained
Laid in sullened tune
—With calla lilies
In godless demise

My organs wrung
Then clotheslined—
Like some
common rag

Discarded lungs—
Airbags for the worms
And my
once sharp tongue
Sits ’tween teeth
Delicately dead

This damp cavern
Punctured by 
A singular watery tree
The branches splay
Beams of light

Where I lay—
Skin haloed 
in mossy wreaths

Flowers before dusk

Curling from darkness,

How you shrink

So timidly inward

You fill yourself

With seas of fears

Though occupying

Minimal space

I would

Kiss your petals

If you

Loved me

||

Some nights I crave release
In loosed muscles
Over the beaming lights—
Polluted city skyline

Standing atop a tightrope
Roaming like a minor god
My insides disemboweled— 
Numbing immortality

I want to linger in apathy
No inhibitions,
without criminal feeling—
Lonely contentedness 

Breathing with intention—
Aeolus, commanding wind
My soul is drunk
Filled to the brim—
With hopes and dreams

Peace with the worms,

Consciousless things

How I’d like to join them

In holy matrimony

With the earth

As the skies weep

Crank me

Jack-in-the-box

Cricks of rusty parts

As music tinkles

Softly

Through floorboards

Dusty as the attic

And the locked chest

From where it came

Your fingers could

Draw lines

Into the age

Of that wooden box,

The one

With a precarious lid

It delights in your touch

Waits for the skip

Of your heart

When anticipation

Is empty

And

P O P

.

.

.

.

The spring dashes

Firmly into your eye

A lone thing

Without a clown’s company

The Struggle for Originality

I found myself knee deep in poetry

Not knowing which direction to go

I settled, staying ’neath nonexistent leaves

Telling myself I’ll remain

Until the frost becomes much too cold—

Then, I could write of my

Fucking goddamn depression

Bass drop

It’s three o’clock in the morning

And I’ve been kissing individual framed photos

In my shrine of Poe Whitman Plath

I harbor such a pretentious heart

I could not bear to part with mediated prose

(Man these tumblr poets

And their penchant for simplistic thought)

—I’ve drunk so much irony in my tea

I can no longer taste its potent punch

I am so well-versed in the craft,

All my alliteration attempts are absolutely art

My words are like stars, night, dewdrops, love, eyes, the sunskyandmoon

I can write so fresh, I’ll write of farts

I’ve nothing to prove, nothing to lose

Whether I rhyme or not—

Conform or not—

There is nothing to gain

In being a contrarian.

lowercase

the utility

so poetic.

like i’m

merely speaking

words

words

words

bared meaning

the art

in the obvious

thanks rupi kaur

not sure

if i hate you

but boy,

do i love

red wheelbarrows