All the stupid shit I have thought about looking at my ceiling in the dark at some point and all the bargain basement emotions I felt doing so. These are just a series of thoughts I have had over the years, staring at my ceiling in the dark every time the night came calling.
​
Nothing I write here should be regarded as literature; nothing I write here or wherever should be considered of note. This is what living alone for twelve hundred and seventy-seven days has done to me. This is my museum of youth, the last place where I have ever felt like myself and likely ever will.
Over growing concerns regarding the increased space in the monarch's cuticles, the state-backed newspaper releases a forty-five-part directive for aspiring writers and or poets on how to write apolitical regime-appeasing poems.
How to Write a Poem That is Not Political?
Follow this guide down to the last detail to yield the highest probability to kickstart your literary career journey, with the Empereur ’s blessings. ‘Vive l’Empereur!
Conceit.
Long glistening towering
over a past that is now lived,
Understood, disappointed.
the last time we spoke
You told me of the
only two lessons
Your father ever taught you
“Time destroys everything.”
and
“The postman always rings twice”.
Apologies for the lack of romance and the overabundance of self-indulgence in this yarn. To accept this person-to-person call, please continue reading. This November, the sky has remained muddled and empty; outside, the window hung over a waned sun, and the entire month, it has felt more like an evening than a morning. All my thoughts keep reverberating through the shallow hallway of the third place I moved to this year. And they keep reminding me that some of us have no future. At my core, I am hollow. Empty. Living a faux existence. I am not virtuous, just afraid.
This October,
My thoughts
Are brittle as snow
and not nebulous.
This October,
All I need
is to not be me.
This October,
I want to be forgotten
Rather than be known
Every memory with you feels like a lifetime ago. Your Speedmaster still makes the same ticking noise, but I can no longer decipher what it says.In a way, my life stopped at sixteen, but your hands held all the tenderness I have ever had in my life. Now and again, I try to track you on the radio to see how far long you are on your
resplendent journey on the other side of everything, and I just assume the journey you are on is long; there is no way for me to know.
You are an out-of-season flower
and you keep asking everyone
if they identify with Kierkegaard's
Either//Or.​
The times you closed on me
All the times I tried to be your reprieve
and all those texts you sent in the morning
Ersatz emotions
Anything to feel closer to you.
Snow,
A drive-in,
Soft glowing street lamps,
Softer lips,
Abrasions to the lips and jaw,
Sharing a Mortlach in a freight train yard.
What use will any of my poetry be?
When they further expand the city
into this freight train yard.
I am no longer screaming
to portend the inevitable anymore.
All the gas station rum
Flowing through my blood,
is twisting my stomach into knots.
Misled by the M8,
Taking the wrong turns and
into an alcoholic summer.
Synapse to synapse,
The roads ahead thin out.
I am no longer waiting
For God.
Even though God
Has always been here
Everywhere and in every instance
Where I have suffered,
God would not be so kind
to intervene in suffering
He had a direct hand in effectuating.