melancholy galaxies

my heart is a half-empty glass 

pouring what little bit’s left 

inside my sinking chest 

out to an abyss,

an audience,

that sometimes 

spouts back.

what they see

and how often 

is determined 

by an algorithm 

often favoring bare skin 

and seething rants. 

i won’t make it big,

and sometimes it feels bad,

but i write to survive 

when i feel like i can’t.