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