another unwantedby the light of a dying dayi retreatas unhappily as my heart could beat,as breaths could sing,Did I ever choose?I think not.just give a hushed "oh well."seal it with am a gic s p ell,you're justANOTHERt a l e totell?
Do YouRestlessness Thy eyes see no polished diamondJust thy swollen fallacies
IllusionIridescent illusions fleeting across a crumbling path,as trembling hands sewwhat is left ofa lovely visage.Imminent disastersthat send the worldfalling to its knees,as the backdrop of the universebends against the willof its god,and the fear-stricken childrenof this realm are demolishedupon swimming in never-ending flowsof hate and ignorance.Open your eyes,all that seems to be beneficialto your rotting human existence,will drain you of your will to live.Your body, like the discards of a dull recordon a lifeless day,will be disposed oflike the waste of flesh that it is.
WaitI have to take a second look,delve into the past that has shaped the sufferings of my mind,I stepped on the shards of the mirror,my blood covers the floor.I realize that I am barefoot, that I am not breathing.Who is this?A scar sits upon my chest, from where I attemptedto pierce my lungs,but the few tears I criedwere those of happiness.What have I become?I am confused,all the papers have been scattered, and I searchfor the one that bears the truth,as soon as the building is set to flames.I inhale the smoke.Too familiar of a feeling.
HazinessHaziness of the lights, blurred visionbreath shortened to weak rasps,hands frail, the weapon is dropped,and into the room the rest run.Faces looming above, they stare you down,eyes filled with fight, tears falling,cries echoing,echoing,echoing in the chambers of my mind.Go away.Cloth to neck,panic and fury,our eyes meet.Slight smile, clothing is colored bright.Final sight of your lips, and darkness floods,as faint sirens screechin the distance.
You and ILingering through my dreams,Grasping my hand,in a gentle dance,across the field of swaying flowers.Holding you close,embracing against the shine of the sun,soothed by the touch of the wind.And laying in the rain,just you and I,hoping to be yours till the end of time.I close my eyes,and hopetill the beating of the rainceases.
I Love YouI love you more than anythingmore than anyone,I'll miss you more than I miss anything,even the bliss that I had lostI want you more than my hidden desiresthat tug at my aching heartBut it seems that you have ran off,out of my arms,and out of sightAnd I'm sorryfor saying all the wrong words,and being all the wrong things.I love youso even if you don't come back,my love will forever be for no one but you.
To Whom it Doesn't ConcernHello.I've truly realized how none of you care.You act as if you do, but in the end, you are concerned with no one but yourselves.I had never asked for much. A simple kindness was worth too much to give, it seems, but I understand.I wasn't the person you were looking to give it to.I learned that I've never wanted to be.Never wanted to breathe, never wanted to live.Mostly because, there is nothing worth living for, not even myself.Why must I suffer? Why do I let myself face this agony and this pain?You say that this is selfish, because it'll only inflict pain upon others, but there'll be none.Because you don't care.It is selfish of you to degrade me for wanting release, for letting me crumble and wither away.But you don't care.You're just like everyone else. And hopefully you will suffer just as much as I have to.It's unbearable. It's indescribable.It's consumed me.I've turned into this monster.And it's time that I rid the world of it.Farewell.
I don't careI no longer careIt's just a mere wound,just another drop of blood,and just a little sob.It becomes routine,part of the coldness of your hearts.Please tell me why God has chosen meto live on this planet.Somberly, along this oppressive path.I wanted nothing.And you got everything.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis:A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,and your satellites in relapse all bending,and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.And then what unconquerable continents,what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
The Time Has ComeThe time has come.I've preparedI've listenedI've ponderedI know thatmy choices are limited.Don't stop me, your efforts are futileThis is how the story ends.Goodbye.