the poet lies.
one side of the painting written,
the other hidden.

but so do the skies.
the painter.

so do I.


to the lame ones

boredom feels the same when it stays
it feels the same even after it goes.
our own lack of perspective, empathy, and perception
leaves us naked;
loneliness can’t be felt when one’s alone.


your voice shivers when you say words you’re uncertain of–
certain that only in empty caves in other’s heads they reach
you stop the gears in your head,
in a state of false peace
“Ah, finally I can be understood,
this is it!”