tenderness is a gift
and my poems lack it.
violence; danger; loud voices; quiet cries
what creates such gentleness?
i almost missed my bus stop but my stomach
lurched and i ran to jump off
clinging and clambering to the last thought
of this pathetic poem before i walk home
shrouded by clouds
my teeth won’t stay in
my gums even the ones from when i was 4.
i’m so desperate to
make something beautiful (not myself)
but i can’t make my poems rhyme
why won’t they fucking rhyme
internal or external
something concordant
amongst the discordance
of hozier in my ears
and i’ll write this but no one will read it. not even me.
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