I was born with insanity in my bones
fire burning in my lungs
with smoke blowing past my lips
cracks in every word
as if I would never be whole again
living brought the agony
of trying to understand
who I was
in a world that was telling me
who not to be
and I was everything that they
said no to
sleep was nonexistent
behind hooded eyes
and no way to realize
I was not to blame for falling apart
trying to stitch myself together
with all of the pain I felt
I only knew what it meant
to be racing against my own
biological clock
ready to escape the cage of my own demise
at any moment
if only someone had the reason
to leave the door unlocked,
hope that someday someone would
trust me with the key
until I realized that the key
was inside me,
I was just too focused on the insanity in my bones
to pull it out of my own swollen throat
and create my own freedom

My mind thought it was dead
for five long years
living a life under clouds of medication
raining blues on my forehead
I did not know what it meant
to be awake
I only knew what it meant
to not want to die
I look in the mirror and see surviving
as if survivor is my only worth
bleeding thick black lines
onto paper so thin
it disintegrates as I write
my bones are awed at the thought
that maybe it didn’t need to be this way
smoking lungs deciding whether to
keep putting out the fire
or let my body burn
burn with my own inspiration
love that buried itself in my ribcage
and made itself a prison
worried about the hurt that would
crush my hands to powder
like it did before I learned
how to silence my mind,
it is deciding whether to be broken
or swimming in my own head
learning to think again
against my body’s wishes
it’s being okay or creative
finding light
finding life
or finding nothing in return

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

bird are flying across the room
splashes of sunlight
on the walls
there is beat
there is melody
of their little deaths
flowing through the summer
of my heart

The things I'd do to be with you
Would put me away for good;
So, here I wait in solitude,
No sun, no moon, no light.

I've dug deep to break out,
I've climbed walls in my sleep;
I've dealt and knelt,
Held my hands out
To supplicate for pardon.

But I'm a repeat offender,
A schmuck and poor pretender;
A pled lifer for loving you.