Poetry, Meaningless

I don’t actu­ally think that any poetry has any mean­ing,
in and of itself.

SOMETHING

I don’t know how to say it
Bird­song is a many splen­dored thing
I …


Literal Conviction

Is death nav­i­gat­ing my note­book?
Death rows between dull blue lines.
Will I be …


Under(done)

Raw, the very idea is ide­al­is­ti­cally
the quirky dreamer. Who fills
my lab­o­ra­tory with …