It’s not
too late
to save
yourself and me
but you’re
and I am so very
weighed down by stones
tied on to prove
that I’ll sink
(or swim)


I am in need
of stitches
to close the
holes that
time and
circumstance has left
in the fiber
of my being

fix me
so I will
no longer
feel the need
to fill my
wounds with
soot or ash

I need you
to stake a claim
to forfeit pauses,
show me
sweat stained sheets
so that I
will come
undone by their

I believe all
Poets are the same
they feed hunger or need
with ink or
by forcefully stamping
the keys with numb
fingers and vacant
yet overfilled hearts
they can wound
or mend with the
flick of the wrist
or tongue,
collapse you in
on yourself
bring the world to
it’s knees
but it’s only imagery
and sometimes what
we know to be true
within ourselves
cannot be conveyed
by mere words
on an otherwise
blank page