I get a glimmer in my eye each time existing seems to hurt.
You know what they say about poets, they prefer to bleed.
I can't help but stand at the edge of my rooftop each night I crawl through the window.
Checking to see if my father stands on the deck below, I wouldn't want him to know I've grown addicted to corrupting my lungs, filling them with familiar melodies from other souls.
Because when my eyes start to wonder as they play louder this feels like my own lost home.
And that's when I believe maybe my irrationally is as rational as my heart beat.
Because honestly you could burry me in poison oak, fill my grave with smoke and I'd still find hope.
Remembering each star I saw, my white shoes on black shingles, and morning depth with too much bare skin to all take place upon window cills but it always had, and I'm glad.
Because although my feet are damp on blood stained floors, I don't question if I should break the habit anymore, because love always kills, but it feels so damn right still.
