Rambling wordsmith without a pen, then, when the walls crumble,
I’m the man with the shovel. Above it all, the Earth looks like a marble
somebody shot on a big black carpet, it ain’t far fetched to think I’m
the creator of this detonation. Blow it up. My ego and us, shards
of Woo, shards of You. Part of me needs a lobotomy, the other part
needs a tender hand to grip when I slip. I’m gone, ragged vagabond.
But I’m also here, peanut shells and flip flops and whiplash. Come over.
Call me. Kiss me. Punch me in my soft cheeks. Everything is confusing.
Everything is inspiration. Inspiration is everything. The roses in the trash
and the one blooming on your face when I whisper something sweet.
Though, I usually shout nothing sweet. These words carry their own micro-climate.
This weather buries my snow angel and melts my burning heart. My yearning
start to this life put me in an anxious, sickening tailspin, I type these words
in an airport bar…. again. I fly back home in a metal bird I know no science of.
I’m just a poet researching what it means to dance and cry and high-five the
passing sky. If there is one thing I leave you with, it’s that I hope you never lose
your hope, and I pray that a day comes when the anxiety goes away. And I’d love
to see you in love, even if it’s not with me.
I don’t edit. I don’t repeat. I will keep on truckin’,
even through all the fucking defeat.
Art of Starving 