My grandmother is in a casket.
You are comfortable in
not tied back
hands extend for the body you thought
how transient being is.
And when my body dies, it may become a number of things like free.
I can’t write a love poem.
If I can find comfort closest to colonial convention,
my soul could be saved from Hell
built by conquest
neither an abomination
nor the weak rib
perhaps, proving to myself my possibility to exist.
Do you really want a love poem?
I mean, the earth is on fire and
melting ice sheets are rising over the city
will we ever be able to breathe
if the atmosphere continues to choke us out into the cracks
in the dirt of the pavement
deaf to our pleas of ‘I can’t breathe’
so basically, I no longer fall in love
it may be catastrophically devastating.
The city is burning while drowning
and I love contradictions more than Whitman.
What a cliché: a sad love story
are you kidding me?
I’m already Gen Z
meaning we’re weird
we use memes to communicate
death is a punchline
I guess it’s like a part of evolution or something
You really gotta be kidding me!
It seems foolish to discuss love w/o talking abt racism which seems foolish to discuss w/o talking abt white supremacy which seems foolish to discuss w/o talking abt insecurity
We’re #woke like that.
I can’t write a love poem
cuz, I am not angry
I’m turning over to see my greatest nightmare stare right back
off white n’
or something of the sort;
air is thick
like through pauses
look at these birds moving in packs making space for the little ones to survive
I learn growth by intensity of the sun
how it cannot be stared at for too long as if it is purity
maybe it is
maybe it isn’t
we all are and aren’t always
you are and aren’t always
we’re in our 20s
we’re kids barely
why do we believe love can only exist for one person one way at a time
have we lost all imagination?
what is forever if not just the present moment?
You say: Break my heart, that takes courage.
I say: I love you.
But, this is not a love poem all
cliché n’ shit all
normal n’ shit all
boring n’ shit all
not my style n’ shit
We are the U-Haul I vowed my closeted teen self to never become.
My full body must catch my tongue before I let the truth roll out with no filter
I love the way you roll our spliffs,
this is still not a love poem
but, I can use the word “love” all I want
cuz, I said so.
This is my poem
a testimony of love beyond force.
I do not have the courage to break a thing, a being;
I am not as radical as you may think
my pen is the closest I’ve been to revolution.
pleasing art of syllables in sentences
I got lost
picked you up
moving on n’ on
until there is
I may be scared without you
Is that not love too?
Call it stubbornness wants
following my own fate
using the erotic as power within my life.
I can no longer try to find words to put into form;
perhaps, this is something like a love poem.