I’m not black or white or fat or thin.
I feel music and then I write something about it as honestly as I can.
I am falling weightlessly though through an entire life.
I’m no angel or devil or disaster or dream.
No one wakes up excited to call themselves a poet. They rise realizing that they are one and go through the five stages of grief in one gigantic breath.
I am freely tracing curved paths endlessly it seems.
I’m not here and yet I’m never leaving.
Regardless of topic all poets only ever write about love; and love is their heroin so you cannot really trust a junkie for whom there exists no rehabilitation in this life on this earth.
We are neutron stars colliding me and you.
I am nothing but a fucking vessel in all of the ways that it could be meant.
I’m not near or far or desperate or imbued.
I am a part of a macroscopic illusion. Where did this love come from, this music?
Why aren’t there enough words yet to define how much I want to destroy you and remember it?
I’m not good or bad or right or wrong.
I just love you is all.
With any pen I can find.

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