i'm almost sorry 
for this.

these injured verses
are not enough
to sustain 
you.

my heart, a
burning building,
or some other 
useless metaphor.

you speak to me in
nouns and verbs that
I can hardly decipher,

but i've grown weaker
for them,
all the same.

we will sing some song
to our naked bodies,
and lose the sentiment
in our labored 
breaths.

they might not be of
much use to 
you then,

but i will accept and 
not be ashamed
of them.

a man set himself
on fire, 
though the body 
toiled on for 
several more 
moments, 
the flesh burning
open and 
revealing itself 
to god. 

the body will go
to great lengths
to survive.

my great-grandmother
refused to die until
she saw the last of 
her children. 
someone hid in a 
corner and disguised
their voice, trying to
convince her out 
of her own
misery.

we have learned
that life is 
something to
love and let go
of. 

unattended, 

there are too 
many holes in
the ceiling for
us to count.

we will do 
things here that
will confuse and
excite me.

as i look away
from it, out
through the
cracks into the
sunlight, we 
almost seem 
innocent.

almost. 

you may ask 
yourself: "but
does it matter?"

yes. 
or at least 
it did once.

were we to compare
gods at the end of it
all, only to find 
neither of us had been
better off,

would you be 
surprised or
worried?

there's alot i
don't know,
and alot that
i've forgotten.

and yes,
i have been
ignorant.

but i remember,
at least, how
the earth
looks so much 
better under 
your feet.

once, i thought
i knew
everything.

when you told 
me otherwise,
i became a 
poet.