If it were up to me,
I'd let myself rot here
Drowned in my cotton sheets
And allow my skin to finally sink
In between the gaps of my rib cage.

Rot and
putrefy and
fester and
ooze,
Flesh dripping off bone,
So this stink of my own decay may be apparent to me alone no longer.

Senses overburdened by defeat.

I've had a recurring dream,
In which I swim myself into deep ocean,
Ignoring icy waves that crumble atop me,
Until I'm just a pale face in the water,
Staring up
Reflecting a blank sky.

That's when I exit myself,
I watch myself drown and,
I realise it may not have been a dream as much as I thought.

They say nature is a cruel mistress,
Predators, parasites and peril are her kin,
When she tears down our homes
And ruins our sunny days.

Walk among her
And her trees will ignore you
Whisper between themselves
Secrets forbidden unto the likes of the living.
Her petals turn away from you
Though you ponder them so.
Yet you still laud over them, obsession
In a rose bud.

I could chase her moon
And name every star
She'll still never look me in the eye.
I could dig my hands in her earth,
Pray to her,
She'll never embrace me as her child.
Try to understand her;
Chlorophyll
Photosynthesis-
She hasn't a care to notice me.

Natures the cult with one way to join
Initiation to her arms
Is by decay,
Horizontal and silent
Sacrifice yourself to her flowerbeds.

I long for the day I'm useful to her
And the grass blades feel me back,
Leaf sprouting from my breastbone
Finally I become her breath.

Poetry is stupid.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.

Isn't it incessant!?
That tick tick ticking within the walls of my skull.
It will count me down, entrap me in my own noise,
So thunderous!
And I can only pray for release,
Into dullness.

Why must my tired pupils notice everything!?
They rebell against me, despite my pleas to sheen over,
Ignore,
Shut tight and,
Let peace wash me away!

Together, they assault me with experience,
And I am shoved in a wedge of darkness,
To beg for tranquility in vain.

The constant thoughts turning over,
And eyes which take in light...
This proof that I am living,
It is my agony.

To me, I'm Schrodinger's Cat,
A peculiar feeling at that.
Both alive and dead,
My heart rate is sped,
But inside, well, it seems I am flat.

I yearn for Silence every day,
Otherwise brimming with the noise
Of all those expectations.

How euphoric it is to sit in quiet,
With my tea cup,
The stack of letters laying ignored to my left,
And be in that liberating solitude.

To watch the wind rustle through the rosemary *** on the porch,
And be utterly nothing
But myself.

There is no pantomime in the stillness,
No role to play in tranquility.
Shirk your persona!
Unshackle that heavy façade!
In the darkness we all release that sigh of relief,
Satisfied by the invisibility,

By the absence of another.