poem.

poem.

the droplets of sweetness are tainted by

hate. Yes, it is just as much I, as much as

you, who dribbles and daps in this sweetness

as much as the wrath. Hopeless we are,

but valiant in pursue. I am not Hemingway,

maybe am I Dickinson. More Cummings,

but I can still relate these emotions and maybe

call them pretty. Yet, life is not poetry, and

neither do I live it like so. I would like to

take in every moment and be like soft flesh,

and despite what poetry says, not drown

myself in gin when time is grim and wrath

is clawed. And the moments come and go,

unlike knives, the sharper they are, the sharper the

pain. What is pleasure without pain? Smudged

pain is smudged pleasure. Quietly, I am pensive

Quietly, I am hateful. The wrath feeds on the

joy. The joy cowers in fear. But the fear is not there.

Because I am valiant. Arson, maybe. Yet fear? I know

of no such thing. The unwilling, the foolish,

and the cowering fear. Be valiant and revel

in the uncertainty.