There's A Bitter Aftertaste For Every Word I Swallow

there's a bitter aftertaste for every word I swallow

there's a pit in my stomach but it turns at the sight of food

there's an imagine imbedded in my brain that won't go away

there's a fly in my room and I'm afraid it's after my rot

I haven't slept well since the last time I saw you

- getting worse - zero (me)

how am I to write of things so beautiful by themselves

there are yellows lights outside and blue fluorescent lights

there was a man on the bus who was so obviously an addict

he's found a teenager's phone by his seat and told his every move to a woman he didn't know for

"he's had too many problems already to steal anything really"

there are yellow nights of laughter and blue strangers who weep in churches

there is a part time job of mine at a flower shop

and I can't explain how throwing out stem cuttings makes me the happiest I've been all week

the world's poetry writes itself and I feel useless in my craftsmanship

"poetry in breathing" - zero (me)

there aren't any words in which I could put the purest act of your love that is sitting with me at night and listening to me complain about writing poems and songs

I hope you realise all the love in them is for you

the universe is screaming in my face

I stand under a clear sky and beg

beg it to let me feel at home

I get awoken at night to look to the sky

and see constellations I cannot read

the universe is screaming in my face

but numbers and stars aren't my language

and I was taught there's only one god

- zero (me)

(I've been slacking in posting poems because I'm working on a project that needs me to write poems in my native language, and those don't do well on Tumblr. not that anyone missed them)

gone are the times

when you couldn't sleep

not knowing where I was.

and now this home again

is just as cold as i have

remembered.

I come back from the snowfall

to see my brother leaving and

to you sleeping soundly as ever

and I cannot be upset at any of that.

but I just wish growing old wasn't so hard

• "turning seventeen" - zero (me)

what is a poet if not writing

what if not dead then

my hands ache when I grip a pen

but I refuse to let go

if there is pain there's something to cling to

then there is something to write about

if my hands break from the strain so be it

I will use them until I can't use them further

so may the ache never stop

so may the poets never die

so may the fire burn

so may I still try

• old bandages - zero (me)