I'm picking these scabs again.
They were once so harmless,
Such trivial little marks caused by the bumps and scrapes
Of life and the interactions within.
How did it get to this point?
Gaping holes, bleeding all over my sheets,
Clawing at the incessant itching from deep within,
But only managing to scratch the surface.
This compulsion to pick away
At the repugnant remnants of these feelings.
Knowing that it does nothing but mark me further,
Ignoring the strands of collagen
Forming to each other to pull the jagged edges back together.
Hating the feel of the thickened, lightened skin
Where it once was perfect, untouched, now corrupted.
As soon as I feel it harden, I pick it away,
Keep the scar gone for one more day,
As it drowns in the blood.

His sobriquet was lost as documents detailed his official names,
With relatives and friends no longer parting lips to give breath to his letters.
Shy away from his life--
His pain was adopted by them--
Never again see the man with his soul intact.
Bones fractured with a
Crack
As his body, weighed down with burdens,
Collided with concrete, created a pile on the street.
The screams of on-lookers fell on dead ears,
Since his spirit was already soaring high.
Higher than the drugs ever took him, and his skin lay there,
Left behind in a mound of worthlessness.
The pathetic loner of a man, weak,
Swiss cheese arms from syringes, decaying in a mirror.
Life was never going to be his saviour,
But society was always going to be his executioner
Unless the drugs got to him first with their axe.
Picking his brains only led to self-loathing and confusion,
And now they can't be picked up,
Only wiped away, washed...away.
Like the memory that he ever existed,
Because folks turned their back on him a long time ago,
When it first became clear
That he was a problem, and an oblivious one at that.
Now he's just a name, a record and a headstone,
Family never again speak his name.
Wonder if they even know he spilled his body onto the ground?
All in an attempt at saving his soul, putting right his past.
The man's self-crucifixion.

What ghost do I see before me?
You drop to me in
Shackles and chains,
But were you not free?
Can the chains not be broken?
They're deeply rooted
From you to me.
Do these shackles not open?
Why, ghost, do you drag me with you?
I watch you dig up
And unrest earth;
A coffin I'm to climb into?
What fate awaits in here?
You once told me that
Death was free,
So why do you blanket fear?

What ghost do I see before these?
You came to me in
Sorrow and pain,
But were you not in peace?
Can the pain not be spoken?
The roots are deep
Embedded, yes,
But can't the earth be broken?
Why, ghost, can't you take me with you?
I watch you fade
Into memory,
But I want to fade too.
What fate awaits me there?
You once showed me that
Death is free,
So why am I slave to the air?

So I drift into uneasy sleep to greet a woman
Of unquestionable beauty.
Dark eyes beckon me but I'm transfixed;
Her ethereal quality could stop ships.

The epitome of perfection, I need to meet the woman
That gives meaning to exhalation.
A calming voice tells me to come to her side,
So I awake and follow; her echo my guide.

But as I draw near, I struggle to see the woman
Now becoming so hazy.
Her aesthetic body is not as hypnotic;
She's fading and I cant stop it.

She continues to vanish and still I seek the woman
Who gives me the power I need.
The soft grass below me starts to die,
And the echo is now a primordial cry.

Now she is no more, and yet I need the woman
As I struggle to remain in sleep.
Suddenly I'm awake; my hands outstretched for her.
Funny how waking makes things blur.