When will I accept that I feel alive, if that ever happens?

One consuming tenderness flickering between fear and warmth, feel alive.

Two who enrapture my time, my being, my heart, I feel alive.

Collecting words I consume as wisdom while

cycling back to old conversations helps me feel alive.

Voluntarily measuring variations of matching visions

verify the mass between my shoulders, making me feel alive.

On the isolated islands above, I interpret my wrongings

and believe the design lied about my tendency to feel alive.

I decided for the first ten years of my life

to drink my spit and hide so I wouldn’t feel alive.

Since the sunflowers started speaking towards the sun,

I’ve struggled to fully feel alive.

Seeing myself surrounded by bloomers saying similar statements

to each other, I don’t associate with them, those who feel alive.

Even if we may agree, I battle between the truth

or continuing to drink my spit, denying that I feel alive.

There is nothing wrong with others who do, not to mention

I do feel sorrow for those persecuted who feel alive.

Honestly, I don’t want to endure any more of the

exhausting longing that stems from the way I feel alive.

Kass is only an example of a field of sunflowers who wilt internally,

those who hate themselves the hardest, feel alive.

When November Won’t Whistle

When will November find the way back home?

Why won’t the withered waters

Evaporate leaving me to suffocate

In the widely arranged wrath of

Eleven months complete with wronging.

I place a droplet of stone cold

Designing a pure perfect painting

Pointing to the people of the compass

West stitching on skin, North drawing on tongue,

East missing, South poorly printed red.

Pouring out of my nose, feeding onto what is left

So I roll and I reek in remnants

Until it stops raining, though quickly,

Where I am left to wait through the months wail once again.