I want to slow it all down,

take it back

to an abandoned, dusty town,

ride my bike down the alley

and make out with an old flame,

pushing him against the wall

while no one is watching.

I want to be bored

and trust that the person next to me

Isn’t wearing a mask

with golden glitter

and hair dyed silver

who will cut my throat

the first chance he gets.

I want to touch a wet, dark tree

growing and changing

as if the world provided nothing else,

as if there were nothing else.

Cover my hands in dirt,

cut my legs running through poison ivy,

for the chance at anything real.

I want to sip tea

sitting on hand-carved wood,

looking out a dusty window

at the snow-covered streets,

to the smell of coffee,

and the feeling of the bright white paper,

the pencil in my hand.

I want to sing again.


I want to want to sing again,

unparch the sweltering desert

inside my heart

and belay everything I locked up

from different crevices inside.

I’ve never posted poetry on here in the three years that I’ve had this blog. In fact, I’ve hated writing poetry like 70% of the time I write poetry. It’s always free verse and never something I’ve ever thought to be any good (oddly enough poetry is the only work I’ve ever had published in books). I’m at this point in my life in which I’ve realized that whether or not I think it’s good, whether or not it is objectively good, if I feel like I should make something, I should make it. This is regardless of what others think and oddly, in this case, what I think. It’s cathartic to do something solely for the purpose that you want to do something. I haven’t been writing as often as I should and I have this blog, so my apologies for random posts that are not as seamlessly curated as my other posts. Figure if I’m paying for this domain name, I may as well do whatever the fuck I please with it.

(Photo by forgotteniowa)