Most of us die slowly
We swim without a net
Until the paperwork gets us

realize you’re screaming

Stoping advicing

The year of the tree
has come and gone

The sickest thing
Hiding behind words
There is no childhood
In them
Soft anger is hard to print
Hard to read
Words are lazy
Like porn
We make words
difficult Like love

Primitive defense mechanisms

The birds that stay
all winter long
They know their place
They argue well