marx, pain, hate

Table Of Contents

all of my sins


Forgive me for not being  
who you wanted me to be
Forgive me for being
a ghost in your eyes,
Forgive all of my sins,
though I won't repent,
I will regret,
and I will keep regretting,
till the ground starts rotting,
till angels come and talk to me.

on what poetry is


My face was whiter than it ever had been. It had lost its golden shine, that bronze everyone always complimented me about. It could have been fear.

Do you know what happens when you try too hard, when you give too much, all at once? Poetry is the pavement rotting, falling while we walk, us

trying to run as if there was even a millimeter that was gonna save us. Poetry is the weight of blood – every single drop, every single cell, working

together to create a dysfunctional body. An imperfect one. Poetry is a story you read in third grade you never really forgot, something in it haunting

you deeply. It's that slow receding hairline on an older man, reminding you of the passage of time, and reminding you it's gonna hit all of us, someday.

I do hope someone will remember me, somehow, sometime.