alma

Look,

now over a half of my sentences begin with a sigh
intentions. I’m defective, so infectious inside
pretending to cry isn’t a problem when it rains
it only becomes a problem when it stops

but,
Used to looking down, when things aren’t looking up
1 day my life’ll flash before my eyes;
not sure that flash is good enough
ive been given a gift to write every moment as happened
except with more details and girth, more exposure. more factors
more fractions of seconds, all malleable sections
what good is words from wise men, when the one who told the parables dead
used to it not going my way, so i’d go in my journal and write
to make sense of what happened, to an essay i eventually tore up outta spite
i inherited words. characters without a characters worth
a curse interacted within variables. hurt
unfurling course of action given its insatiable thirst
maneuver like van gogh through jupiter on mercurial etchings
to live frozen in time as a painter of the worlds most peculiar settings
to see beauty in carnage, objectify tragedy as a series of concepts
intensify the nefarious. sifting through the nucleus’ carwreck

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