You were born
with (statistically)
no chance
You were born
into soft noise
and sickness
What good is
what little
quiet that
remains?
against the
onslaught of
glowing screens
and hyper-present
noise, outlined
in neon
These days
you nurture
all you have
left of your
animal hurt
Fueling an
acid flux,
a nausea
at the seat
of yr soul,
an anti-
Kundalini,
Sit with it
and hold it
like a secret,
like a poison
that loves u
too closely, that
licks behind ur
ears like a
wayward flame-
child,
a friend that
nobody else
has
