Poetry

Nearly 5.2 billion people use the internet daily, whether for work, school, communication, or entertainment. 

We were isolated; quarantined. The social strain was… immeasurable.

Midwestern night.

There’s something out in the fields,

Something banging on the roof.

Fresh vomit in the toilet.

The sink is running, so you can’t

Hear your own heavy breathing.

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The ground

Beneath us

Trembles in fear

The future is

Dark

The ending is

Near

The trees

Around us

Shrivel in fright

They cannot

Stand

Some days

It’s hard to find

A reason

To get out of bed

The depression claws

At me

Begging me

To just stay there

Sink into the darkness

And disappear

But I don’t want to

Do that

i never learned how to leave

because i came to Life

in quivering obedience

a slow stillness

p u l s i n g

along the tracery of me

My hands are catalysts of creation.

I feel, I bind, I grow, and I love with these hands of mine.

My hands weave crowns of flowers and make twine and twig wed together.

the more of me i see, the less of me i want to be. i feel empty and dreaded and dead inside;

i’m a horn atop a pig’s head;

i still remember dogwood, sitting under my porch;

my name? what is my name?

death and malice behold thee, what pains of being are inflicted upon thee, those creatures in the water and the hills continue to watch thee, the wind in thine ears whistle around thee, seven eyes on a goat’s head stare towards thee, the

Redwoods standing tall and strong.

sycamores with mushroom-like foliage.

Maple with their sap soon to be syrup.

Willows weeping in the new dawn light.

Cardinals singing on the branches of a oak tree 

I should be nice to look at

Presentable

Effortless 

It shouldn’t look 

Like I spend hours in the morning

Getting ready

Because that’s conceited

And no one likes a girl