my paper back is crumbling
under the weight of these words
subtle curves turned jagged rips
I'm torn.

ink.on.flesh in this open book that I keep in my chest
I've never second-guessed it at all.
trusting my initial judgement call. I'm just a metaphor
speaking of life through a poet's eyes.
tears raining. because the sky is where I've been
since I realized I can fly
without wings. touching lives with my pen

my mind is weary.
seeing life in lines and letters is tiring
often being inspired by the shadows cast by the ceiling fan
counting the fingers on this shaking hand.
is almost like counting the landscapes they've created
oh. how often I've debated
putting it to an end.

but- emotional arrest. and dropping this lead in poetic suicide
has never been appealing.

I can't help but see the beauty in this hardwood floor
and I can't help but see the stars as magic.
staring as if I've never seen them before
no matter what I tell myself.
it's selfish to deny that this is my life.

and I'm not a poet because I want to be.
I'd just die without
these words