Poetry, like any other art, is subjective.
Poetry has been an underused medium to tell a story but this is in the process of changing.
I don’t want to be the thing that satisfies you, but only for a moment.
We are like stars—there’s a chance we might burn out. There’s a chance the universe knows our destiny, knows we’re meant to fade before the light years even reach us.
Poetry that directly touches base on depression and other mental illness, specifically in women, is what feeds postmodern poetry of the twenty-first century.
I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day,
but bones are stronger once they heal.
When you’re cut, I bleed. When you don’t eat, I starve. These are not words of sweetness or beautiful monogamy; this is a mutated cell that affects logical thought and choice.
I will choose you,
because I do not see another choice
that ends as beautifully.
Not another choice I would rather make.
Your memory rests in the shadows of my collarbone; you are dabbed like perfume
Behind the lobes of my ear, in the creases of my elbows, at the base of my neck.
“You have to be willing to let your soul die to enter the areas of darkness necessary to pull the large fish swimming in the ocean of the political unconscious.”