my skin catches lighting
as i accept my inclinations
i love unhappily
this unwilling juliet
the reward of poetry
is being able to find
existing
broken hearted
an act of beauty
hanging tragedy from our shoulders
the way a paper doll wears a dress
my mind too socratic
to ignore the dichotomy
science classes
teach nothing but what causes
everything to die
the difference between a poet and a philosopher is their amount of sense
i am so tired of fearing diseases which cause it’s afflicted to have the same face
why do writers build altars to suicide in their heads?
must we romanticize everything
the answer is yes
my soul craves what living in england would do to my writing
it would be the same effect
springtime has on cherry trees
the reflection in the mirror has already packed her passport
my body has disregarded the nest