Junk sickness unearths this
Deep-rooted, oozing desperation.
Slack jaws,
Eyes
Bouncing in the back of your skull.
Tear through the paper flesh,
Scraping for a vein
Needing of
Molestation,
Mutilation,
Shredded from that constant need,
That whining itch,
To feel nothing
And everything all at once.
Praying for the earth to melt
Around the bare bones
Of the walking dead.

I am
But an observer
Stuffed in the back seat
While needles clog,
Blood surges,
Rage stirs.
I am
Just a spectator
To their universe coming to a
Creeping
Dull thud,
As they dream of better days that will
Surely come.
I am
Not sure
If it's possible to dig yourself
Back up
From the depths of a self-made grace.
I am
Not sure
If there is life after dope.
Lust swelters,
The shot is done,
We drive on.

I have spent
Too many miles
In the beds
Of strangers
Pick up trucks
And
Roaring
Freight trains
To settle
For a quiet,
Small
Life.
I am a wayfarer,
Wanderer,
Vagrant.
No walls can keep me.
I am too
Massive
For civil norms,
I am
Too much
For a habitual society.
A roof would
Keep me from the stars.
How could I
Give up the rising sun?
A door would keep me
From all of the strangers
That I call my allies.
There is too much of this world
That I have caught
A glimpse of,
There is still
Deep-rooted mystery,
I can feel it beneath my feet
With every mile I roam.
The magic rouses
My being,
Stirs my soul.
Though
This may feel like a curse,
Some just weren't meant to
Fit
Into
The puzzle.
Some
Are
Free radicals,
Disturbing the peace,
Agitating the possibilities,
Proving
Freedom isn't dead,
Freedom isn't free,
Freedom is something
That must be stolen,
Freedom is to be
Taken into your own
Two hands.

I am not sure
If I am an artist,
But I like to watch
The way your mouth
Creeps into a smile,
And how your laugh
Crawls deep from the bottom
Of your belly.
I like the way your eyes
Glisten
When you first pry them open.
I like the way your hands
Hold onto me,
As if I'll float
Up
Up
And
Away.
No, I don't know
If I am an artist,
But I can recognize a masterpiece
When I see one.

Sometimes
I think
My body is a
Cemetery
Nestled in a
Deep
Dark
Wood
Defended
By the old loves
Baying to the moon.
Sometimes
I think
My bones were
Only meant
To consume
Every hurricane
With grace and fascination.
Sometimes
I think
That I am
Too tired
To take another
Broken defeat.
But I am a
Home
For the dead,
I am a vessel
For mismatched memories,
Crooked smiles,
Calloused palms,
I am a concept
I am always
A
Stranger
In the end

Breaking fast with stale cigarettes
and burnt coffee.
morning flows through my tiny bedroom
and you come to life in all of the walls.
nothing will do until i am scrubbed clean of your love.
until my skin doesnt hold reminders
of the times you used to hold me,
of all the hours we spent
exploring every crevasse of our being.
someday you wont live in my bones anymore.
i look forward to someday.
i look forward to any day without you.

I am kicking
          Screaming
          Crying
for the tremble of a 48
through evening mountains
set ablaze by thousands of fireflies.
If I could I'd leap from this skin
into the arms of the harsh desert,
I'd let the sun scorch my sagging muscles
and empty veins.
My thumb is aching
for long hours in the middle of nowhere.
My feet beg to dance once more in unknown cities.
I look to the corner of my room,
there lays my empty,blue,mile stained backpack,
pleading with me to find home.

I am bones.
          Bones.
             Bones.
Bare, sun bleached,
     Picked clean,
Scavenged,
      Forgotten.
I am bones.