I think I’ve had a realization but it may just be insomnia-induced madness, or chemically-induced madness, or some other sort of madness I have yet to discover, so I think I’ll write it down and we’ll see how I feel about it in the morning. The realization is this: getting pissed off at people for things they enjoy is a shitty thing to do. Unless the thing they enjoy is hurting someone, such as rape or abuse or you get the idea. But when it comes to harmless things like music or poetry or literature, and by harmless I mean things that are not made to cause hurt, people should be allowed to enjoy whatever they want. It is so easy to feel superior, to think your opinions are the only right and true thing. Do not forget that there are many truths, not just yours, and also that most truths are changeable. You must be patient with people. You must let them have whatever joy they can. You must learn to have joy also.
and panic and my thoughts tell me I am an awful artist and I don’t belong here and this is the wrong choice, all of my ideas are shit and I will fail and even if I don’t fail none of it will mean anything and then I want to burn everything I’ve ever made and burn my house and sit in the middle of it until my skin melts and I can no longer separate my fingers.
Everything is pretty okay.
That is all.
I am not okay
Do not panic
Please continue your lives
as though nothing has changed
Everything will probably
I build friendships like card houses
conversations balanced on the thinnest edge
one breath and it will collapse
a mess of words and meanings
I build friendships like sand castles
waiting apprehensive for the tide
new hallways already crumbling
every piece resisting
1. everything is shit
2. I am shit
3. there is no 3
I miss you so much
seeing you makes me want to tear off my skin
You are my bellows
you are a burr on my glove
stuck between my thumb and my finger
you are the itch as I heal.
Dilemma: I have a class tomorrow morning but
your face is seared behind my eyelids
chasing me away from sleep
Dilemma: I can only write poems
about you Dilemma:
it’s not you I hate it’s me
it’s me it’s me it’s me
missing you is a skin I wear
Inside I grow pale and my hands shake
I replace you with words with highs with chocolate.
You grow underneath my fingernails.