☠︎

i think, for now at least, building a new world sounds nice.

this anger was a poem. and he was going to perform the hell out of it on stage.

he was something of smoke, of gunpowder, of echoes and foundationless buildings with blown out windows. he was a thing of destruction.

“it’s not your fault,” the man said, and he was breathless at the conviction in his voice, the wavering fury that lined his words as he spoke.

so yes, the world was ending.

he didn’t understand how someone could be so loud in the face of grief.

they have a moment———a weight lifted for both of them. a blessing for father and daughter, and a trauma healed.

after a beat, they turn to each other and burst out laughing. a moment of connection.

he had wanted to be loved.

because the only way to repay a sacrifice so big, is by sacrificing your life too.

they are the raw poems, the hurt poems. they are the poems made of pain, the ones a poet prays to forget and let die. the ones that never stay dead.

the reckoning can't wipe this place out soon enough.

he wouldn’t be their little brother anymore, of clumsy words and childish hands.

“you know it’s not your fault, right?”/n“bullshit.”

because we could ruin the world together.

it is here the poet becomes a necromancer, momentarily given sovereignty over life as they glance down at their infant universe, decide whether or not they should let it burn out and collapse in upon itself, leaving a ghost in its place.

if his teammate wanted a game of cat and mouse, he’d give him one of dog eat dog.

you are a poet, and an amazing one———you see all of the withered and dirty and bad parts of the world and you make it into art.

i would spend centuries writing odes just to perfect how to describe the way i feel about you.

because how can i be the funny friend if i’m not constantly cauterizing my wounds into a stand up routine? because i’m still performing, and no one is laughing, and the bottle is empty. take. a. shot.