our lives, they were not destined to be poetry, this is what has been taught to be understood
but our minds, they were winding words and beating rhymes and summer in winter and snow before autumn
so we packed up our pencils and we drove full of life, cleansed of death, to the coast
and we dangled off bridges and spun circles in rapids all because we knew we could not, would not ever, be broken
our talent, our minds, they were fresh, they were squirming pulsing twitching squeezing into salt air and windswept laughter, they were nurtured, they were born
we woke at sunrise to smash ourselves on rocks and fling outselves from beams, all because we were desperate and it was morning
and we dissected our minds with a sea star and crab shell as we floated on our backs, wondering if this is what life is about, smashing ourselves for the thrill of it all and looking up up up, in confirmation of life, defiance of death
were we alive?! we screamed at the sky
and we were, halfway broken, forgiven, dimly-started