Barely There Poems

Sunday:
I hate you.

Monday:
...

Note to HIM:

I suffer still
from childish choices made.
...

Listen real close and I’ll tell what I done seen.
I seed them that would be free
running past Canal and Bourbon Street
...

My eyes won't drift up.
You have a splash of mud on the tip
...

We speak in the languages of shooting stars,
full moon skies,
...

I imagine that maybe this was once something
that was strong enough to endure
...

i breathe u

u, on the other hand,
find sustenance among the dead
...