someone thinks you're made of metal, doesn't think of tasting you
2026-08-07
i see life in a way
in a way that,
what is the purpose of writing? if not the attempt at captivating what's fleeting?
isn't it a disservice? isn't it outright evil, fucked up? to want to lock something away,
what is the purpose of, captivating what's on its toes, swift on the air?
now i don't feel like writing.
though my writing is never a zoo,
there never is a barrier excluding you,
you're in it, but lucky for you,
lion perceives the car and the human as one.
me, on the other hand i don't conceive the lion,
i see the same old thing.
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.