For I feel like I‘ve become someone who wants to
Appear as a good writer, or a writer who has mastered
The art of writing, but I feel phony, dishonest and exhausted,
For I have lost touch with the person who wants to be heard
For her story and not how she tells it. I have been so caught up
With how I will arrange my internal rhymes like dropping bombs,
How I can sound more literary, more elevated in my metaphors, that
I have hidden myself in this shell of a text, disguised in a language
I don’t speak aloud in my daily life, but I think in this one so I am
Allowed, for I have given myself permission to express myself in
A borrowed tongue, or have I been escaping myself through my
Second one, for I have chosen to be phony, dishonest and exhausted—
Or am I overthinking and trying to carve out a poem out of it?
But I think I can allow myself to write anything now that I am
Attempting honesty— not being phony, dishonest and exhausted
And even my iPad fills in the blanks and deemed these
Three words my refrain— so I let this poem take a life of its own
And let it be phony, dishonest and exhausted—

I remember that quote; “Intellectualization is a common
Cover-up for fear of direct experience.” by Carl
Jung" and another quote by Hemingway, saying,
“Write hard and clear about what hurts” and
I look at my intellectualized shell of poems
I’ve written in my mind’s eye and
They appear ugly no matter how melodic.
I thank them for existing so I could
Peel the layers of my onion making me cry,
To reach a less
Fancy language that feels
More authentic, more honest, and less
Exhausted.

Marinating

The rioting hell-hive, for I'm a busy bee.
Who can say these skies are ours when
They are all mine in their dry summer cries
Counterclockwise— still, carrying my demise,
Before its parts &
Pieces appear divine in some form called art
My capturer, my love my executioner,
My love's executioner—
Like meteors deformed;
Unique like fingerprints pressed into
Moon dust.

I digress, I should not, but I told you
About my mind fog, my gray world, my
Autumnal summer crying and cursing in
Thunder-screams. I thank her for
Her self-expression. My mind just
Dumped its clutter so
Heart could speak her truth in peace,
Uncensored, unfiltered
Yet I still try to be honest in words
Dancing in melodies
Weaving—
I hear the music my words sing
Before their meaning
So I left them meaningless and
Unresolved like Beatnik—
No full circle no resolution,
Like my thoughts my life or
Yours— if god is a careless novelist
I can be a careless writer too, throw some plot twists
Like this isn’t really a poem but an attempt—
No I haven’t abandoned my work, I’ve been marinating
This piece of writing, during a three-week hiatus, I
No longer remember a word written, dumped in this
File, my past version scribbled so I can finish her
Sentences in the present— a time-traveling consciousness
But maybe that would be a stretch— but isn’t writing
Telepathy? Why am I full of it lately? I want to quit
Writing mediocre poetry, and breathe, I want to
Quit everything about this artist journey but
I persist, for stopping would be defeat, and
In a lazy piece of stream-of-consciousness, in a

World full of halves & guns & doses over,
I've been wishing on
Rockets & planes pretending they're
Shooting stars, with global warming a comet
Discovered & rejected by the government
Officials who should resign— but all is
Fictional and you can breathe, in and out—
While, I've been growing lungs &
Heart births more hearts to pump
Tear ducts to survive & thrive
With my art looking for its
People, staying underfunded—
A diamond in the rough dirt of
The internet we no longer surf we
Drown in earth's fancy dirt since
Birth, and now we're becoming
Plastic, synthetic, and lifeless
To adapt to our gray world, to
Survive but never thrive—
I know I speak in dark, in the dark,
But maybe that is how you’ll hear what I
Say or get what I mean with a spark only
The dark can birth like how stars
Pierce an infinite
Void—

But this piercing pieces of me
May just be my
Performative revenge fantasy
Undermining my gifted heart
For the sake of retaliation but I
Accept all messages within and
Thank them for their consolation.

Radio Like Lana

To haunt you while I'm
Alive,
Heart raw, still, pulsing
In your hand,
Blood thick no
Longer dripping.
Time suspended on
Air like a zeppelin,
As I remember my
Heart crossing over
Boundaries you’ve
Blurred,
Nights thick, moments
Celestial, looping.
Wounds sticky
Like honey,

Depression lurking behind an
Aggressive laughter,
Thunderous yet abundant like
The summer rain.

My elegant screams will pierce
Your heartless heart, hurt your brain
Good.

Fly a butterfly while stinging
You with punchlines in my chorus
An army of me coming at you from all
Angles like angels drunk on your fever,

While I am building an army loyal and proud
For I will be on air forever, and you,
Done and dumb— howl, do you like
me now? How do you love me now—

Can you love a dolled up, dulled up star?

Never enough, I’m never enough so
You find consolations in chasing
Fireflies, counting them, feeling proud—
For now you are done and I,
A divine star in a galaxy far far away
From your dying touch.