I seek validation

In the anonymous

In the cursory embrace

Of a society

Who by its very design

Parries distinction


What right have I

To speak of instinct

When I force

My prophetic bones

Into the sleeves

Of a disingenuous mold?


What right have I

To speak when my words,


In a communal maw,

Lack the integrity

To illicit change?





Man as a construct of ego

Invites the very trespasses

He labors to circumvent


Man as animal seeks

Reciprocity over conquest

Affinity over distinction


Flaw is essential to

The expression of beauty

The Muse


I tape quills to the underside of each forearm

In order to simulate flight

My heart serves as both inkwell and millstone

Depending on the proximity of my muse

There is no catharsis in withdraw

Only the dissemination of sorrow

Through undignified outlets, namely

Crying when one is fearful of sleep

When in company my muse surreptitiously plucks

The numerals from every clock within visual range

That I might remain indefinite in confinement

She is the residue of every lunar passage

Since the dawn of my existence

She translates my failings into wisdom

There is no drug more permissive than poetry