a poet, early october / soon to be seventeen scars in the milky way

strange

i can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough

or nothing at all

i try with an obnoxious desperation

to simply be

but there is nothing simple about it

there are far too many layers of paint

to this art of Being

that i’ve lost what intentions

with which i picked up the paintbrush

in the first place

so instead

i wish and i wish

until my eyes bleed scarlet

scarlet like the sweater you wore

when i told you i loved you

now my bathroom sink

is made a sea of

the little black bodies of eyelashes

plucked like dandelions from poisoned earth

left to decay in puddles of agony

all thanks to me, the murderer

who only wants to feel again

but with a flicker of the stage lights

there goes all feeling

farewell to the last delicious drops of september romance

october reminds me that

life is drawing circles

again and again

until i’ve no more ink to go on

a girl, an etching in the indigo spaces

between stars

soon to be seventeen scars

in the milky way

tell me, why is it so hard?