The worst
is yet to
come.

A collection of small visual poems — 2017-2021

The worst
is yet to
come.

A collection of small visual poems — 2017-2021

I do not know how to perform my worth so that you will believe it.

There were mornings when i felt like king of the world

You said we would be fine staying put in this storm,

but your assurances are not tied to something concrete —

and like the shivering walls of our home,

and like the shingles on our roof, or wind-chapped skin,

they flake away with each gust.

I pull the beginnings of the threads apart and the ends twist together

Celebrate the good times!

i remind myself over and over that scale is a relative measure of value

I look up at the ceiling and think, let me take some of that weight

I look up at the ceiling and think, crush me

I look up at the ceiling and think, let me take some of that weight

I look up at the ceiling and think, crush me

The power of

the small things

The power of

the small things

that impede

and bind,

that impede

and bind,

unyield-ing,

easily forgot-ten,

unyield-ing,

easily forgot-ten,

until they're

un-notice-able

until they're

un-notice-able

yet unbear-able

like a buzzing fly

yet unbear-able

like a buzzing fly

Why are you in such a rush?

What do you expect to find down there that you can't find right here?

I can't understand you, speak up.

Ha ha, it's a joke, obviously, I have no idea what you're saying. Either you're speaking in gibberish, or I am.

Either you're speaking in gibberish, or I am.

somewhere between the things we perceive and the things we feel is a thick permeable membrane. what passes through, what doesn’t, i’m not sure the factors that determine that. for everyone, it seems slightly different. what we leave on the table. what we take to heart. the things we say are rarely really what we mean — not in a nasty or negligent way but simply that our own feelings are on the other side of that membrane from our thoughts. from my thoughts, from my lips, from your ears and eyes, from your thoughts. we watch tv and both laugh. we sit before a sunset together and i cry, and you close your eyes. you ask me what’s wrong, i say nothing.

somewhere between the things we perceive and the things we feel is a thick permeable membrane. what passes through, what doesn’t, i’m not sure the factors that determine that. for everyone, it seems slightly different. what we leave on the table. what we take to heart. the things we say are rarely really what we mean — not in a nasty or negligent way but simply that our own feelings are on the other side of that membrane from our thoughts. from my thoughts, from my lips, from your ears and eyes, from your thoughts. we watch tv and both laugh. we sit before a sunset together and i cry, and you close your eyes. you ask me what’s wrong, i say nothing. i told myself i would speak only from the heart here, that the only rule was that i would have to be honest with myself. but lord knows it doesn't work like that. the roar of my heart washes over me as if i am nothing but a beach of finely ground stone. the grains disappear through my fingers as quickly as i can scoop them up. i gaze at the waves and then look away in fear.

You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this
You   can’t   run   away   from   this

Tiny fine lines mark tension at the center

A taught thread snaps as you tip-toe across

Slipping through the porous soil, sloughing off your dead skins

your trembling breath fogs this new sky's bottom

The ridges of a barren spine, scored with hostile notes and eroded with time, jut out from what was once a sea floor

and you realize, as you travel through the undulating paths carved through this dried, dead matter,

that these ravines are yours, that you will not be leaving.

The hard line between who i am and what i want you to see makes it very difficult to put these words on this screen, but here you are, staring me down and here i am, eyes shut in front of you.

This is not an end but a thread that has woven itself into too-small knots
— admin@construct.click