I am perpetually exhausted
in this current skin. 
Good at what I do, yes,
but exhausted. 

It’s perfectionism to a sense
but without all of the
unnecessary habitual

They say this is supposed 
to get better,
the older you get. 
You’re supposed to find 
your clarity. 

And I do think I’ve found it,
it just,
doesn’t lie on this plane 
of existence. 

It’s just not to your sense of
the world. 
And I’ve not enough patience
to explain it.

All I can really do is tell you
I want to go home. 


Small Talk

They will say this is all natural. 
People talk amongst each other,
that’s how you get to really know 

But I have never gotten to know 
anyone based on what they had for
breakfast or where they bought their 

You see, ninety-nine percent of daily 
human interaction falls into the same
routine anymore. 

One person is listening, 
or pretending to be,
while the other is talking. 

and I mean rarely,
will the talker actually
speak on something 
fascinating or even
let up on their turn. 

They will hold you captive to their
incessant rambling
and loud nonsense
for hours 
if they can. 

That lack of common sense,
the dysfunction of it all,
is enough to make any sensible
person feel entirely insane

So when you ask me why I don’t 
pay any mind to the talkers,
or why I choose to hide my eyes and
turn a cold shoulder instead,

Know that it is not me being
socially inept,
or even antisocial,
that is causing our issue. 

I’m just so sick and tired
of listening
to your bullshit. 


To be a Writer

To be a writer feels how liquor
Smooth yet perpetually coated,
tongue lined in blasphemy, 
an outspoken existence
beneath the trembling
of a page. 

To be a true writer is something
akin to insensible inebriation. 
You’ve got to be the one willing 
to write down all the things 
everyone else was too 
afraid to say. 
Even you. 



I twine sprigs of lavender in my 
pillowcases and pockets,
I taste fresh peppermint and black
currant on my tongue,
I bathe in the decadence of sage and
pull vanilla through my hair. 

They are minuscule reminders from 
the world 
that there is still good to be
so long 
as there are still people searching
for it. 


Wake-up Call

Why are we still starting wars over
religious beliefs? Why are we still
fighting wars at all? Why are we still
trying to pigeonhole sexuality? Why do
we have to label everything to
understand it? Why don’t we want to
take better care of the planet? Why can
some of us still not get the concept?
Why are we still paying money to eat
fortified shit? Why do we operate on
money at all? Why have we let big
pharma get this bad? Why haven’t we
completely changed our public schooling
systems? Why are we still supporting
big corporations that are poisoning our
economy and why haven’t we taken a
second look at our failing political
system? Why isn’t marijuana legal?
Why is alcohol? Why do we still break
people’s hearts and why do we still
hide how we feel? Why can’t we
understand that every living creature
on this planet has thoughts, feelings
and the ability to suffer pain? Why do
some of us still want to exploit that?
How are some of us still able to ignore
it? Why do we still throw parties as if
we’ve got anything to celebrate? Why do
I still write as though it’ll ever make
a difference and why don’t more people
want to read in the first place?

Why are we so afraid of doing better?
Why are we so afraid of change?

I could keep writing and writing you
distractions to make all the mistakes
momentarily disappear from your
but the damnation of our process
has always been my place. 

All of this horror has been swarming
inside our heads for decades, eras, 
time repeats itself once again into a
combustion of infinite stupidity

Humanity – 
This has always been
and always will be
a poem you need
to read.