The upload rate of various photos passing through as 0’s and 1’s
Catching the moments that seemed to pass by in a flash
Accepting that the cameras eye missed moments in between
When trust and space sheltered lies and deceit
For a selfish soul who manipulated fact and fiction for control
Of a now wireless puppet trying to remember what agency is like
Or deleting gigabytes worth of memories once priceless now lifeless
when the value behind a Kodak moment is but a half-life of a double-life
burning photos to show that every smile is as flammable as it is vengeful
in the name of a ghost that holds you responsible for its own suicide
with a howl you can’t distinguish as either pain or laughter
as you see yourself merged, in part, to this which you call an evil
not sure if you’re cutting ties with the past or if you were born a three-armed monster
Breath in the nightmare
With eyes like fireflies
Watching the moon hang over your shoulder
Speaking words of promise that lift you like water.
For some reason, we think that poetry is this thing you do on the side, once you get your math done or your science done. Same thing with writing or any of the things we call “the arts” – there’s this idea that they’re just an elective, they’re just decoration, and they have nothing to do with our survival … or why we can stand to be here.
That’s the reason I’ve made it to 53 – because of finding these things that poetry or painting or place contain. That’s the stuff of mental health, and we ignore it at our peril.
Perhaps Wordsworth was right when he wrote that “poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge.”
An hour and a half before midnight,
the last thing I expected tonight,
was to find myself asleep
on your living room floor.
Wrapped up in my thoughts,
knowing I no longer liked you,
knowing you never liked me,
knowing more than I wanted to:
I was never of worth to those
who made me smile.
And I fear
Silent and cold,
at the center of what was
what might have been
and what I didn’t know
never would be,
I fell asleep
scared of becoming
the memory of past lovers
who scarred me in ways
I’m ashamed to admit.
I don’t need this shit
You fuckers will regret this
When I am famous