the truth is:

The truth is I don't know where this starts

And the more I think about it the more it begins

I'm a poet but

I don't love poetry all that much

Well I do 

But the way that you would love a handgun

A confession carved in each bullet

So you start shooting the sky

Expecting god to explain 

I like to draw flowers in mud at the shore of creeks that swallow my clavicle bone 

And the truth is I do that on paper

On google docs

On my forearm with a felt tip 

And i call it poetry

But spell it spell it like “mountain”

The truth is it doesnt feel like poetry all of the time

I think the poetry doesnt know itself

Waddles around my tongue like a milk drunken toddler

And i had no choice to become a mother

To adopt the relentless screams somewhere deep in my mind

Loud enough to echo on the surface 

Ripple the water I’m treading

Sometimes I dont even know what theyre fucking talkinf abouit

So I cradle them , rock them ,drive silently around the roundabout

Until I think I've escaped its need for me

I sit in 5 am silence like i do in a prayer

But I spell it like “confession”

The truth is I still try to love the challenge

But the truth is

I was never scared of heights but of weak foundation

A dream built on sand

Crumbling into its own shore line before it even has a chance

The truth is I learn a lot in my bedroom

I’ve drawn maps of the parts of me that stick like tar and flow like stream water

And they all lead back to the roundabout 

So I travel it’s orbit until the echoes subside

And remember my gravity 

And the truth