Is poetry like rubbing salt on already open wounds,
or is it what heals them?

Is it the cure to the poison present in our soul,
or is it, instead, the bane of what we feel?

what if in lieu,

poetry is what keeps mankind alive
through words once unsaid and unwritten.

It carries on our prophecy
and alleviates the vague suffering
present in the deep pit of our insufferable, mortal minds.

Poetry,
is the way our soul inevitably bleeds.

Perhaps, the one sole star
that we wished upon as kids,
wasn't ever about the glowing speck
in the seemingly endless sky above.

All it took
were a few wakeful nights,
to realize--
it was, and always had been,
you.

the slow slide
down from the stars above. love,

it leaves so fast,
grows so quickly cold.

she had looked into the shark's dead eyes
and found the friend
that waits in silent shadows

that draw the dying
inside themselves and into

the lone, solitary ring
of the cold church bells song.

Sylvia stared with dead eyes
and rode the white horse of death into the fire.

i think i'm so used to feeling things in grand amounts — love, longing, grief, anger — that when it subdues my body recognizes it as numbness and everything turns pointless in seconds matter

Ice,
It's cold
But,
It melts easily
Just like you