Writing

Your gut curdles.

Your skull stays stiff.

Your flesh shakes,

your feet are wet.

The world can’t fit

inside your shell.

Your skin splits —

False memories might betray me but,

i think i used to look up this street, and dream,

dream about becoming one with the pavement

where the road met the sunlight

I could almost taste the harshness,

A secret 

A choice 

Back then, we were just so 

Oblivious and so insensible 

To the clear misunderstanding 

right in front of our faces 

October 17th, 2025. 3:35 pm 

I go to the woodshop 

Grab some cardboard 

Walk over to the weeping willows 

Find a large stick and 

Break off the uneven twigs 

Composed on a run

With autopilot turned on

And an old love song
 

Quick little poems

With no start, nor a clear end

Grown just in my head
 

In a cozy nook

Not unwritten, but unsaid

Hey, Mr. P,

I saw a paper airplane 
and remembered you.
It's been too long — 
my paper world rips;
these hands are painted with cuts.