When I asked you what I should do. you told me...
"Yeah, I guess it would make sense to end it now."
I could feel a crippling cold in my lungs mid summer
my heart is no stranger to a strangers lack of care.
It's just a summer ******.

At least when left alone, let alone the thought of being lonely, I never consider taking my own life before its meant to be taken from me.

At least when I talk to you, you remind me like your reliquary for lost tears, you tear through me unraveling my armor to all my inner most fears.

Giving myself a gift of agony inside of antagonizing images of my self.
Ambition and bravery give way to craven humility. disguising howls towards the moon as laughter laughed to soon. I dug my grave today just to give prayer to the future,

I piece myself back together with my words like a surgeon who's done this a thousand times.

He who is practiced in the way of emotion suture

His hands never getting steadier operating on the child inside him with his rhymes.

It never gets any easier
it only gets worse.
After all,
how can you do your job,
when you run out of thread
and there's a thundering in your head.

When you've got twenty-five to thirty for life to become death.
You kind of want to be in control of your last breath

Through moments with silent trepidation
One another was filled with accusation
The wren flew with the prestigious
The rat scurried with the gregarious

She was filled with torment and fear that she fought to quell with flesh complacent, bodies in motion, always feeling indecent.

He was bound by his wrath and fear, swallowing pride just so others could get near, trying not to lose control, always trying to steer.

little known to these two indigenous creatures of my heart
that they both formed at my elementary start.

The rat as my inner love, the wren as my auxiliary love.
A beautiful tight rope of masochistic devilry

There is beauty in resolved emotions.
Storms quelled and waters without motion.

There is beauty in unresolved conflict.
the matter of misunderstanding because of instinct.

I have dined on cadavers of my broken memories.
I have whined at the intrusiveness of tragedy

My dignity denied and pulverized pride has left me thirsting inside.

Left to my own design I twist and turn into an image more stern.

In turn I can feel my match stick burn
I yearn.
I burn.
But i carry myself inside of nesting dolls that falls at the sight of you.

I can only wish you feel this way too.

Sometimes the most simplistic poems are beautiful.

I eat apples because i'm sad, and I like coke too much;

My gums hurt when I bite into the skin of it.
Reminding me that sometimes, the Pleasures of the things that are simple,
are sublimely painful.
like apples, coke in mouthfuls.
It hurts because my gums bleed from chemical burns of stimulates that are lacking opalescence experiances
Jacking my sails  that left me high and dry.
in all odible sensible seriousness,
I'm ready to cry,
hopeing by the end
that I beg
like the children forced to manufacture it,
Hopeing to die.

But I beckon for that pain
Not out of self destructive gain.
But out of recognition for what i've lost.
The identity of the man drowning in Desolate porcelein desserts and tossed into oceans named after the many emotions i'm swayed by.
Sadness leaves me floating,
Anxiety leaves me floundering, Depression has me drowning.
Not a matter of difference but for the sake of juxtaposition.
When Thoughtfulness is chosen.
Happiness lets me see my position.
Then Confidence puts my gears in motion.
Because i've seen bouys floating,
men in yahts gloating,
Survivers floating,
Kids in rags
Not clothing
But like a light house
Your smile
Glowing

I can't think right now because my teeth hurt. From eating apples and likeing coke too much.
But at least I feel alive

In the eye of the maelstrom I found myself. As the torrent of pain surrounded me from all sides. I began to rip torrents into tradewinds and I rode on that agony to new seas. my memory is clouded by the fog, but i search for familiar seas.

I took the core of my suffering out with a pen; with shakey hands I cut with my own words.
gusts of air left my lungs.
I danced for strangers to watch my blood fall. I medicated with carnival tickets and white girls to ease out of winter into spring. I relished in working till my bones bruised, and I still felt empty from it all. because it's empty and lonely in the eye of the storm. I realized that the wind that blows through my hair is apart of me. it is me. That every wave that dares knock me topside. is just someone i've grown to hate. and as my hate grows, the waves grow higher, and as I'm consumed with wrath, the wind blows harder. but i know now. through all the pain and torment. that I am the storm. and if I make it to land, reckoning is upon it. but if i'm to sink to the bottom of the sea I hope no one is hurt for it.