i only have two finals but that doesn't mean i'm not gonna be stressed as all hell until they finish. not to mention everyone else's states of being. i don't know how i can still write in this fog.

i remember passion
how thoughts felt when they caught fire
ash seeping lower to my chest, singeing
clavicles, ventricles, the source of the heat
creeping up my neck, my carotid,
to ruddy my cheeks
a settled embered mass in my throat
the ti amo's unreturned
left to burn themselves off your conscience
i remember passion being the spark
igniting my desire, my drive, my will
the cinders have cooled, the smoke swept away

so now i'm plunging matchsticks in my eyes
to glimpse the light again
holding torches in my mouth
to blaze the way i used to
warming my hands against the grate
of someone else's furnace
to try and scorch myself
back into being alive
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

I didn't like the first stanza much, but the second one was great. I don't like how short it is, this piece has more to say imho.