drooslie

can only write poems when i’m

tired tired

tired

and when your hands dont feel the goosebumps on my forearms

and when im trying to tell you

how heavy this thought is on my tongue

but i cant manage to find the courage to bring you to my lips

even though biologically speaking kisses improve our lives

but i dont know how to stand on my tippytoes anymore

Who am I to describe pain from

Privilege, safety, kindness

I’m the result of two over achievers of the American dream

Fighting through a thorns and years

Finding through circumstance and appraisals

I am not fate

I am not hope

I am a devised human, passion eludes my grips because I don’t need to hold on

Everything was handed to me

A silver spoon resides in every cabinet of my being

Where is the purpose when my beginnings wrought my mind with tranquility and confidence? A security blanket purchased twenty years in advance.

How do I empathize when all I’ve consumed is butter and you’ve faced acid

My empathy is just calculated based off of your hardships

I’ve barely scraped a knee and you’ve broken ribs, cheeks

Wrapped in celophane and hand delivered

On my part of the earth, we’re just told to want more

We’re told we are entitled to more

How can someone of such reverence dish out such hate

eyes poisoned by spoils and heart sick with greed

my envy relapses but only for me to realize we are only on this earth

for each other

Sometimes I think I am REALLY LAME
(It’s true)((I’m lame))

i think i’m finished

and it has been wise of you to leave me alone

i hope i stop longingly contemplating the various what ifs that speed through my considerations and conclusions of what we could potentially maybe be if distance worked out maybe and i thought faster maybe and less about you maybe and more about organizing my life maybe and making the most out of it maybe

but its so ugly and raw, these battered fin ger nails

of mine,

and you can’t tell i’m anxious about it all

but for these ravaged

bloodied

fingernails

my hands are beautiful

except for those

your furrowed brow leaves room for my vacant stare

i can’t tell if you’re joking because you refuse to tell jokes

it would only take me five steps and the swiftness of my palm

to make you understand

but it wouldn’t make you understand