HOME | DD

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I.

[i don’t want to
have to tell you i’m
sorry
again but
lately it’s been tough.
And i’m stricken with this feeling that
maybe i’m not good enough.]
run.

you see, somewhere out there
birds are looking for nests and birds
are finding them in the ribcages of souls but i
am tired of picking straw from my heart
and strings and hair that wrap around my fingers i’m—

[well sometimes i’m a little lonely
but i never wanted to tell you that]

escape.
--tired of seeing the ball i wind from
those leftover nests grow and grow—
[and i want more, want more, but
sometimes there’s only so much my heart can hold]
get out.
--and grow

II.

my life is a tree collecting bottles that
some drunken hippie filled with dye
and when the sun shines everything is fine
but when thunderstorms brew they are just dead
weight

i want to do what i want.
[i want more]
and sometimes walking is a chore. sometimes
talking is hard when life is pushing on your chest
and whispering in your ear
[i am drowning]

i can’t breathe.
anything more and i'll snap

III.
maybe this is why i write midnight poetry,
sugar-and-milk coffee poetry,
a warm blanket poetry, the kind
written when i’m most secure.
[alone]

but the problem with these moods are the damned birds that come with them.
and sometimes i think
maybe if i slept, and slept, and slept,
they’d just build their damned nests and i,

i would feel better.

[i'’ve been
waiting for far
too long in the night,
and maybe i never wanted to
have to tell you this but lately
i’ve been feeling]

[alone].

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I.

[i don’t want to
have to tell you i’m
sorry
again but
lately it’s been tough.
And i’m stricken with this feeling that
maybe i’m not good enough.]
run.

you see, somewhere out there
birds are looking for nests and birds
are finding them in the ribcages of souls but i
am tired of picking straw from my heart
and strings and hair that wrap around my fingers i’m—

[well sometimes i’m a little lonely
but i never wanted to tell you that]

escape.
--tired of seeing the ball i wind from
those leftover nests grow and grow—
[and i want more, want more, but
sometimes there’s only so much my heart can hold]
get out.
--and grow

II.

my life is a tree collecting bottles that
some drunken hippie filled with dye
and when the sun shines everything is fine
but when thunderstorms brew they are just dead
weight

i want to do what i want.
[i want more]
and sometimes walking is a chore. sometimes
talking is hard when life is pushing on your chest
and whispering in your ear
[i am drowning]

i can’t breathe.
anything more and i'll snap

III.
maybe this is why i write midnight poetry,
sugar-and-milk coffee poetry,
a warm blanket poetry, the kind
written when i’m most secure.
[alone]

but the problem with these moods are the damned birds that come with them.
and sometimes i think
maybe if i slept, and slept, and slept,
they’d just build their damned nests and i,

i would feel better.

[i'’ve been
waiting for far
too long in the night,
and maybe i never wanted to
have to tell you this but lately
i’ve been feeling]

[alone].