trying to feel.

i couldn't breathe

beneath the humid air,

too much oxygen

for fragile, failing lungs;

my father's rage,

walls singed

from the flames,

photographs burned,

hollow smiles seared away




alone, empty;

a house isolated,

dead writers' misery

greater beauties

than my own;

dead poets,

my only friends

and careful gods.


my hands shook

bad, cowering nerves,

and words my throat

was too weak to say;

my voice a broken mirror,

each journal pulsed

with all the life i wasn't brave enough

to live;

memories i had to keep,

treasures so sharp

and jagged,

sublime and beautiful.


Allen Ginsberg's voice


in my soul,

a life fateful;

agreeing approval

for queer poets

and the lives society likes to pretend

we don't live.



blunt and crude;

honest beauty so sharp

and dangerous;

cut me



Arthur Rimbaud's face framed

on my desk, echoes of chaos 

i understand

and mourn. 


my salvation

and blood,

lines from a pen,

like cuts on my arm,


to feel better.

This poem is about: 


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