My mind feels like a graveyard of trees.
Every fruit of confidence I bear
withers away into a thing of
self doubt.

And because it is the only fruit I know,
I indulge myself in eating it,

And because you are what you eat,
I too, eventually wither away.

Red as the dawn
blood hangs from the young man's corpse,
and drips
like water droplets from icicles.

Crisp as the mildewed air
the smell carries a tang
that becomes the atmosphere.

His neck
stretches like crinkled leather,
rips beginning to form
as the noose struggles
to dangle the weight of him.

His life was ordinary,
with little focus.
But in death, there are far more details
to be descried from his rot.

Maggots pool in his eye sockets,
squirming and fighting for eats,
like nibble fish squirming
to get their meal
of dead skin on a spa day.

His mouth hangs open,
blackened and destroyed
by nature's devices.

His feet have turned blue;
nails cracked,
as though he struggled
with all his might
against the promise of the rope.

A rag doll he has become,
while the tree he hangs from
is strong, sturdy, and reaches to touch the sky.
And he dangles just inches,
struggling to reach the ground.

Soon to fall into a crumpled heap
among the dirt, and fallen leaves
with a splat, no doubt,
like the heavy drops of rain
that splash the mud puddles.

Grime and decay
stick to each and every part
clinging to his dry and wrinkled skin,
like rust on door hinges.

His limbs
look long and unnatural
as the deteriorating layers
of flesh wrap tightly around his bones,
as a babe swaddled in cloth.


An animal would not eat him
as it may contract illness.

But is it not already sick
that we would sooner
watch him fade away so gruesomely,
Allow nature to run its course openly,
publicly
than to lower him down
And build him a grave?

We would sooner see him and *****,
than to ***** ourselves
by coming too close
to his ghastly secretion.

Memories repeated.
Life looking bleak
and I'm feeling beaten.

God(s), plant a seedling
in me that will grow because I am needing
a new story than the one
from which I am feeding.

My current orchid is full
of bloated rotten fruit,
and the ground is sinking,

These memories repeated,
keeps me a hostage
to the unfermented soil
on which I am seated.

My roots are upending.
Fix the soil for it needs mending.
I hope you can hear me,
as my voice is exploding
with pain, as the life I am holding
is decaying.

Stop making death threats
and start making promises.
Otherwise, you'll uselessly
get our hopes up.

And if the threats continue,
you'll find yourself with:

-A broken arm,
-Slit wrists,
-A sack of dead cells of a brain

for how many times you'll be forced
to make good on those threats.
By slamming your arm shut in a door frame,
taking a blade to your wrist,
and banging your head against a wall,
There is no end to the threat list.
Because neither one of them creates an end to you.

But there is an end to the promise list,
and it ends with the first decision
you have the guts to make toward a promise.

-Shoot yourself,
-Throw yourself in front of a train,
-Inhale ammonia and bleach
-Stab yourself repeatedly with a knife,
-Jump from a buildin...

See, I told you this list would end. And it didn't take long...

Saving that last bit of sanity
for the most sane decision I will have made in my
very
short
life

You must first imagine death
in all of its gruesome details
to better focus on the living.

But unfortunately, death no longer looks so gruesome.
It has lost its detail, just as the living have lost their focus.

So...What to do with this Limbo...

Watch, and imagine the living from afar,
while gambling with depravity.

I feel like a dark soul
who could either raise hell,
or burn in it at ease.