poetry
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bloated with clouds and punctuated blue the space, the stage, i’ll listen for you these pockets of perception, i’m known in shattered ways there’s a reward in restraint, i think it’s a fainting art listening really, my brain is all jumbled up all i can speak of is the residue of intention on my tongue
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when it happened, i didn’t fully realize it would i just let it there was a growing grief long before it ended so it only felt natural like another sentence to say the finality of it was daunting i had to let it wear me down until i barely noticed it
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This autumn has brought upon me a clawing for stability and thawing in uncertainty. It’s like my first day being alive again—forced to feel, but not forged to deal with it. I am as fragile as sculpted stone, feigned soft and sturdy, capable of shattering. I shame myself for lazing around, forgetting that this inability…
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Of course I have my reservations; Why, I am soft spoken—swimmingly (seemingly) golden. It’s all controlled and monitored, For I am violently hurting and desperate to express it, explain why. I think my anger hovers over me like a fly I’m unaware of. Point it out and out of embarrassment, I’ll attempt to cleanse myself…
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I wondered what about me deserved this level of lacking communication. I remember it is me who allows it and always forgives, for I know the intent never was malicious. I remember it is me who can react and control the situation. I remember my love, overwhelming. I wonder if I patched some love over…
Pajolo Cam 