There is no rhyme that will fit, sometimes the lines won’t scan, whatever you might rearrange the words to mean.

What is the sum total of all hopes? For if they prove true, then something else gets the credit, and if they are false, you are crushed for no reason at all.

But I have told myself I do not want riches, and convenient all of it is, such an easy prophecy, a story to stick to, if I ever heard it.

Shall I pretend to understand the mystery? The fabric of the patterns that I match within my consideration cannot take the stress of any ordinary wear.

In dreams I have been lost, at times, and been delirious and happy. But the taste of this salty sadness: it is richer than any cloud.

I have stopped wanting to fly away, to escape, to leave everything behind — and then I realize is that it is because I actually have things to leave behind, now.

Shall I stop trying to rhyme things? Who cares if no one will ever know all these things of mine, maybe not even me? I lived like it mattered.