My head has been blank for a while
which must explain the silence.
Life overwhelms me
and the irony is
suffocating
Walking anyone
to the door
makes me feel
lower than low
and remember
not just anyone
but someone.
I wake
and ache
unable to truly
grasp anything,
I’m sick of sleep, I’ve slept enough.
I’m sick of pain, I’ve hurt enough.
I’m sick of blood, I’ve bled enough.
I long to
awaken in the night
and be unable to
ease myself
back into an easy sleep.
I don’t want to be alone.
Lips
here
there.
Unsuspecting.
Pull
like a band-aid.
Find my veins.
I want to be strong
and fearless
again.
I long for courage.
Alas,
it was lost
in the back of the
ambulance.
I can't be anybody
I can't be anybody
I can't be anybody.
I need to sleep it off.
I don't punch hard enough
to leave any
lasting impact.
Not even a bruise.
I truly want
to be loud
to scream.
I simply cannot.
Trust me,
I've tried.
Trust me,
I've lied.
I imagine
it would feel like
Heaven
to have composure
and balance
with another.
I am crushed
by my own
Rubble.
I anticipate the day
when my happiness
like an illness
spreads
and I find no cure
Dining alone
a very late dinner
on a Thursday night.
I imagine
this is how Bukowski felt.
All alone
Surrounded by ghosts.
In this very moment
I'm feeling,
still dissatisfied,
but content with being
Incomplete.
I feel that
I'm standing on the brink
of success
and Death is holding my hand
and Fate is kissing my throat
and I'm shy.
Really shy.
I sleep all day
But don't party all night
Yet I am still
Somehow
Exhausted
When the moon rises.
I am a whole lot of
Ache.
You spoke
like a ghost
but you did not whisper.
Word after word
and punch after punch.
Like a ghost
as a ghost.
I have no one left anymore.
Never
will I ever romanticize
my youth.
Never
will I ever romanticize
my past.
I spit on Sentiment.
But it's all I have.
I inhale
storm clouds
like smoke.
Never
do I cough.
I want to see
how far I can destroy
myself
and whatever else there
Is.
I carry a hammer
with the hopes
of destruction
