when i consider
where i was
eight years ago
when i started
down the road
of poeticruin
i never imagined
i would have
a dozen or so books
sixty some odd
anthology spots

or still be breathing

the books are
confounding
channeling dreams
into the aether
tearing off
the best parts
of myself to
leave the worst
smeared in
lowercasedismay
understanding
what i do won’t
win awards or
amass a following
yet stubbornly
scarringbeauty
in the vainglorious
hopes of inspiring
someone else to
bleedforadeadart

eight years
embracing my
bipolarbrain
here’s to
eight more
i guess

or maybe
just maybe
i stop fucking breathing