a.m.m.t. – 9.10.17

you call it love, but

pluck the petals from that dandelion

and unfurl them from your hopeful palms

crush them into exposed wishes

and bury them underneath the soil

that muddies your heart;

that is where your love belongs

it isn’t what you think

so. stop.


#54 – this was meant to be funny

i have this feeling
that i should write something happier
less melancholy, less tragedy
tinging every word
how? humor is dry these days
everyone’s jokes are self-deprecation
and everyone laughs because they feel
the same way
it’s all…hollow and
morbid how we all laugh the pain away
except it never really goes
it just stays and
none of us have medication
to numb the pain and
fill our heads with chemicals
that won’t make us crave an end
make us laugh at something
other than dumb jokes interchangeable
with unaddressed death
maybe one day
we’ll be able to laugh at something
other than
the scars under our eyelids