Does it fit oddly
like knives piercing
in your gut, 
only in odd moments 
where liquor is abundant,
and when hormones 
cause you to weep
over adorable children,
yet again?

 Or it is constantly moving
like the thinnest, tiniest 
Möbius strip, 
only you can see or touch?

 It will age you prematurely,
pickle you in bitter brine,
make you holler & whine
during odd moments 
when you look 
your best or worst

  The curse of comparing yourself 
against others, without compassion 
towards one’s self, is exhausting,
so why is the drama of it intoxicating?

 I have things I am proud of,
but they haven’t come by easy.

I can carve words from imaginary oceans,
but my messages are only heard by a few people,
the ones that swim freely
without university influence
(in composing)
and people don’t like complainers,
but I’m not really complaining…

Even in my destitute state,
creative musings are rich in my mind;
they taste sweet as golden candy,
as the stars feel ecstatic,
my moods elastic 
between every time I’m kissed.

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