To Every Girl I’ve Ever Made Hate Me

To Every Girl I’ve Ever Made Hate Me,
I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better friend.
Truth is I’m confused between
Expectancy and settling.
If I’m meant to be with anyone is uncertain and I can’t keep close most friends.
I’ve broken an image I can’t quite describe yet
But it’s getting clearer as I continue to crack it.
Is it an axe?! Stifled behind glaring glass
For emergency murder?
I digress just a little too soon
And am prepared to lose my place
To prove To you,
I’m curdled by your wretched desk
until you’re fucking gone again.
And I will do my very best to make it
Last so long it hurts.
I’d be the fool
And only smile to
Have your eyes on mine.

No Lipids

I feel like I’m expiring
Like the sweet skin tries to hide
The rotting insides
My eyes are dry
From staying open wide
And I’m more than tired
This time
I’m something deep
Beneath a remedy
A short wick is trashed
Flickering fast
the gall to grasp
To feed the meaningless
Fuck I have become

Travel Bag

I’m clawing at paper skin
To replace the engine
Start. stop. embellish. 
Try shaking your saturated stories
Dry over fire. Do I 
Simmer like neighboring sprinklers
Or stutter mud under your soles
Or guide you through light trails
Or linger in trees?
“This is the furthest I go
For finding the silent windows
They always meet 
mine Even
without a light.”
A promise to given time
After I remove the blinds.

Statuette

Picture a scene in which you are enclosed in a room with a large group. You were at a party, or a funeral procession, or that other thing you do. You are forced to stand on one leg, with the threat of being killed upon falling or lowering your foot; arm and leg are tied together, behind your back, for good measure. The voice that speaks from an unknown place denies your subsistence. You all begin to rot. You can’t stand alone and those you trusted are fallen before the dawn of this existence. And I’m hungry.

It feeds on grief. So I

Cheer up a little

about exactly what is

fine when I say

“fine.”

If you don’t mind, I’ll keep passing by

run into the wall just a couple more times

It’s endearing, that’s what they say in fiction

But offbeat is an understatement

All of us are on vacation

Elsewhere. Veins are being pumped with money.

Superstition fuels a death wish

Voted for by the biggest kids

“Is he talking about a president?”

I am making wild assumptions

(Pay attention)

I still need an education.

And what is this,

Another distraction?

The laws of attraction do not create magnets

abstraction?

It’s simple, like fractions.

This is not madness

so I Cheer up a little

About being fine.

Goose Egg

Tell me I’m not real
And I’ll believe it
I believe it.
Less than invisible
Next to non-existent.

Tell me why I am
I am a soldier
A beholder
that’s all we ever are, yet
arrogant, irreverent prayers spat out like hair
demand, command, and inherit ill will
Toward all the other ghosts of children
who died in high school.

If I can find the vein
I’ll kill it so
don’t put me near the needle
It’s a key to free the demons
I can be.

And they encourage us to

grow the fuck up

Although, I’ll try to not resign myself to hell.
All my wishes are wasted on daydreams
My nightmares inspire me to keep them that way.
Tell me I’m not real–

I’m as real as demons.

Responsible For Bread Crumbs

I think I came to watch her sleep.
Since lights turn on so quietly,
I flipped the switch to sneak her dreams
outside with me.

Some of my thoughts are subtle enough
to slip the filters and
stretch like dead fingers
Because in the deep is where trouble sleeps
and rears its filthy head.

Somebody once told me to stop hiding, and until recently I didn’t believe that I could be anything other than ordinary. She was no better than I, and I pitied her, and I kissed her anyways, and I told her she was all I ever needed and she believed me for at least one night because I felt that trust and slept alright beside her.
When things started slipping so did I, echoing myself as if expired words worked like glue on broken organs. But the keys stuck together until I could no longer make out the song I tried to play. We were dissonant before she even left and I thank whoever is responsible for all of it, because I get a sick kind of happiness from watching things die slowly.
I’m a lowly type of holy

One Hundred Percent Wool

He calls himself a writer.

His cleverness conceals him from sheep.

A phobia deep

   Seated in the color of

   waves on cloudless days.

 

He hushes and instructs others

with an arrogant pomp.

Burdened by skinny sleep for the week (weak).

Hungry for chili, sourdough, and something else,

So I fed him “The sun rises in the yeast”

Something so suspiciously spice

That he eats and eats and repeats the process.

 

He paints himself in green

   patches his bleeding red heart

   with brilliant blue band-aids

   Immune to the pull away.

Is completely battle weary,

But perseveres because

All bandages must come off someday

and hearts with scars still beat the same.

 

Electric Bill

The mirror is intact
Yet cracked and
A flickering light is no good
for (blemished) reflections.
A flickering light produces
Stop motion shadows in morse code;
Two dimensional death
recycled strobe.
Cover your eyes! I’m

Afraid the youth will be influenced
we have to protect them from
truth That is,
until they flip the switches
In the kitchen
To see what’s cookin’.

you wish you could’ve protected your kids but
big Business doesn’t have an age limit.
Everyone will remember today as
“good times”
When we’re the festering wounds of
who we were.
By then, the mirror is broken
The shards shred bare feet so
be wary of (scarred) reflections.

If there was something
to be scared of
They would tell us.
The fee of freedom
Is flickering lights.

Final Lotus

A pen marks my place

Permanent

on burnable

surfaces.

Lotus III: First and Last

The letters

don’t want to form words

Under order

of a twisted mind.

of a thought gone on

too long

Of feelings

that feel

distant.

————————————

 

Ultimatums are illusions

of the eye beholden.