This year I’ll comprehend the distance between my palms and the sky.
Perfectly aware that any help from here is just numbing the mind.
I’ll realize that hole I worked so feverishly to fix, is the only thing I’ve ever really known and the only thing I could call home.
I am just a speck on this papier-mâché planet, and so is everything else.
And it feels great. It feels real.
This year I’ll throw out all my books because I’ll know, I know it all; nothing really matters.




I’ll rack my mind with promises of difference and change,
Anything for anyone to save me from myself.
I’ll realize I did everything right by doing nothing at all.
Reality is,
Realities are relatively,
Redundancies.