being denied home, by my own lungs
2026-06-05
purple, color of my crown
don't mind me if i frown
see i,
more often than not
was extremely good at drowning
yet i could never die
life, so entrenched in my body
like a tick clinging on for dear old life
either it's that or death
yet i, at my final breath
still my mother's lamb
find my home back to her womb,
read the words i'll engrave on my tomb
instruct my loved ones of the process after my passing,
make it ever everlasting
"The poem isn't narrating a death, it's narrating the millionth aborted one."
how do you want to read?
poems can unravel themselves as you read, line by line, at a considered pace — or just sit there, fully visible, like normal.
change this anytime — look for “reading: …” near the top of any poem.