Poetry, this dreadful freedom, as the spirit of it fills my cup, would you rather I suffer and bear this burden alone, unfortunately it’s not a choice, I'm a coward, and I'm infected, baby, come home, uncle Sam wants you, art is a disease, but in the depths of hell, where worms squirm, and we have no choice but to suffer, it’s almost a comfort, to have others suffer with you, put your hands on it, is it firm, oh, to be cursed with ability, the burden of being able to swim, like a fish in water, swimming through the abyss, give it a kiss, this whole time, it’s as if I’ll never learn, to jump in, peace and death, and the sweet release of rain, to just accept it, goodness, all over your face, if only I held on and lasted, give it another try, but as a poet, for love and life, baby, maybe I can commit to this...

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