i'm here to help

you know, i wish there was a way to escape my own brain, but there isn't. it's disappointing how sleep is the best thing there is and, not even then, can i get away from my unconscious, in all of its glorious mass of confusion.

sitting in a small room by myself for hours usually leads to a lot of dwelling on things. i think this piece is simply a representation of the quiet battle i engage in amidst unused work-out equipment and a stack of books.

i'm here to help

there's no space on
my palm for poetry

no shelter for my hands
other than my pockets, but
i don't find warmth inside of an old sweater

i can't challenge the weather with
burning leaves and flowers

standing still takes time that i don't have
and
though not feeling the beautiful world hurts,
it's difficult to catch emotions gone astray

it takes a self i can't give

reflects an absence i won't see:
secrets lost behind
glossy hazel filters and sun-scratched efforts--

"it's not a matter of remembering what's said,"
i've told myself

but the words are fond of my fingers

my hands and hair no distraction
for the nails that break my skin so articulately