This poem is everything
I didn’t erase

The sea I swam until
the shore was closer
than drowning.

My mind took so many detours.
I ran toward the sun,
become tangled in why
I didn’t do the dishes,
wondered if my bookshelf
had one more space for Apocalyptic.

Sitting in the litter of what
I couldn’t complete I question
if this is poetry or confession.

Tuesday has way more ink
than I have words for paper.

i write of heartache.
it's all i've ever known.
so if you want a poem,
you'll have to break my soul.

made of dead stars
broken dreams, and
a heart dripping with
ink black as night

you called me beautiful
and I am still reeling
because despite my
flaw stained soul
you think I'm everything

even when I feel like
nobody at all

i didn’t want to,
but i wrote anyway.
cracked open
like a shell,
flooding with memory.

some words
arrive as if they’ve waited
their whole lives
to be read.

Not just a fluid,
I am ink — the druid,
Shaping your ideas in a blink.
In depth of papers, I sink.

Not just a physical thing,
An end to your thoughts — I bring.
Not made to drink,
I am the almighty ink.

I flow on the paper,
With your thoughts — I caper.
Like the roots of a tree,
Even the history is written with me.

Not just a black fluid,
From the sac of a squid.
Not made to drink,
I am the almighty ink.