It would be pleasant to be drunk.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.