they say the poets write with clarity
but my head is stuffed with tissue-paper and candy-bar wrappers
i’ve got nothing left to share of consequence
they say the poets write with clarity
but i can’t hold a thought down in my head
without a soundtrack, or a rhyme
i can’t stand my ground, and i’m running out of time
they say the poets write with clarity
build up the world in haphazard scaffolding
and hope someone else can figure it out
but i don’t know
about anything more than a beating heart and your hand in mine
they say the poets write with clarity, so fuck it all
i want to be young and irresponsible
i want to forget about the consequences
cup the stars in my palms like bathwater
and give them all to you
because since six years old, i’ve been scared of deep water
of animal instinct, and ice-cold skin
you shouldn’t approach someone who’s drowning;
they might just push you down in desperation
and watch your corpse sink into the sea
is it normal, that i think about this daily?
they say the poets write with clarity
but my words come out jumbled and free;
and the wind is in my hair
and the snow is coming fast, sweeping me up in its path
and for all the times i have wished to die, i thrash and kick and fight
and cry on my bedroom floor
play god, just about a million times
they say the poets write with clarity
and i remember cutting out obituaries at twelve years old
because maybe these people had no one who bothered to remember
so i put them in a binder
and i tried to learn their stories
tried to carry the weight of strangers
can you tell i was depressed back then?
they say the poets write with clarity
and sometimes, i feel fucking see-through
like you could put your hand right through me
and flip through my crumpled pages
until i’ve run out of secrets to give