I used to be happy
Ignore the heavy things.
Tread and tread and pretend that nothing was below me.

But there are things that lurk.
Monsters and darkness.
While I sank, I sung out about how well I could swim.

And then she was sinking
And I learned how to swim
But I never taught her.

Just keep swimming
I tell her.
soon enough the mermaids will scare them away
I hope she believes me.
I hope she is strong enough to withstand the wretched currents.
I love you. I hope that is enough.

our most intimate moment in my imagination
is painting poetry onto your moonlight-drenched chest,
hot and writhing underneath me,
mirroring each stroke by tensing the muscles in your abdomen–
your vessel of a body,
becoming frayed and singed at the seams as you
burst.

I never cared much for my words.
when I write them onto my own starved skin,
I find, disappointed, that the greyed valleys are always
a poor substitute for the scorchmarks your fingers
track behind them when we
touch.

but I imagine that
covering your skin in my ink would create a
constructive interference, that
engraving into you my
scarlet-tinged idolatry would cause

our cores like stars inside of us to magnetize –
solar flares erupting, surging through every ****** crevice –
to collide in a kaleidoscopic supernova,
tearing flesh to confetti
in a glorious funeral that reeks of
destiny.

It is when two lovers
Meet in the dark
And exchange kisses

It is when two children
Play without knowing each other
Just living in the moment

It is in the creation
Of a new song
By a rock and roll band

It is in the coming together
Of people in the streets
To protest their rights

It is in the baptism
Of a baby. Joining
The communion of saints

It is in the migration
Of birds to enjoy
The sun's warmth

It is when a father
Comes home from abroad
Bringing new gifts

It is in the death
Of a young man
And his mother's grief

Don't talk. Listen
To my heartbeat
Can you hear
My heart's metaphors?
I'm a poem who
Has lost his poeticity
I am a saint who
Has lost his saintliness
Will you still love
Me, after all of this?
Or will you
Throw me away?

Transform the climate
Of my thoughts
That my soul may become
A continent of pure metaphor
Of pure light
I want to be
Like the fish
Who swim in lakes
Not caring about
Poeticity
Away from the
Troubled currents

Do not doubt
My intentions
I only want to love you
To caress your body
Like Ursa Major
Like Saint Francis
With the beasts
May we never
Run out of metaphors
To dance to
So that you may see
Your skin blend into mine

If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of your childhood maths classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is the decapitation of innocent grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher, the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem