my poetry holds all of my chaos.

when i look for the net to catch
fire, and ice, and shrapnel, and bile –

i am held whole by poetry.

when betrayals are streamed
solely on synaptic feeds i grasp

not for the words,

but the space around them.

so i sit held by poetry.

accepting that the effect of living

is also in part an acceptance


that with each step
i am in peril

and living

at the same time,
i refill with poetry.

when my heart stops beating
even for an eternal second

and hope leaves no note

of encouragement.
i embrace poetry.

since my bones

and my blood

are held together by the words

of others; invisible to me

yet a part of their law,
so then i must read poetry.

the story is always so clear
as it hits the page.
and as real as my fingers
tapping across this keyboard

i have no assurance in a resulting truth.

worse still,

out of mind

and hidden in posted spaces

beyond my constant view,

is distressing to me.

sitting with

this tension

ironically, feels like I’ve

stealing from myself.