Your life has no meaning to anyone in the world but yourself. No, it’s not depressing. It is freeing. It is the biggest weight you could possibly take off your shoulders. It opens you up to limitless potential for existence. It is not depressing. It is miraculous.
anchors, glass teeth, and other metaphors that describe you perfectly.
This is a poem for people who have turned self-destruction into an art form, who rip through lives like serrated knives, people with glass teeth and hearts even more fragile.
This is a poem for the martyrs of philosophy, who stir madness like sugar into their tea, who speak exclusively in Kafka quotes and fortune cookies.
This is a poem for lost travelers, compassless and tired who walk alone for a lifetime cleverly disguised as a single moment.
This is for the artists who paint entire novels about confused platonic heartache and destroy relationships as often as they destroy canvas, who start crying if you ask them about their future, not because the concept frightens them, but because it will only ever be a concept.
This is a poem for the believers whom I admire, the ones who cut out bible verses like coupons, buy-one-get-one-free morality, the ones who will never pull the nickel cross off their necks no matter how bad life gets.
This is a poem for the boys who always come back, who never really left, who sit below me in all kinds of weather, who hold down my soul, who are my anchor.