This is my four thousandth post.
I understand how insane that is. I do. Sometimes the magnitude of sharing so much pain is too much.
But sometimes the emptiness is so deep, all I can do is sink.
When I awaken, I cough half formed thoughts onto the sand.
Then I dive back in.
I would love to stop. To breathe without pain.
But some of us don’t get that luxury.
So four thousand. Maybe at eight, you will take me seriously. Maybe at ten, you’ll read my books. At twenty we can sip champagne together in the dementia ward.
Four thousand poems. Five of them good.
Fuck me, right?
Thanks for coming along.
To the next ten thousand odes. Maybe by then we will have learned something.
But that’s the point. To learn something.
Hugs and sloppy wet kisses
i have fallen
from the places
i thought i would
yet no matter
it is always into