A man lies on his bedbug-ridden mattress, staring at the strange stains on the ceiling, wondering how they got there,
contemplating the stories stored in the sauces and syrups mingling among the asbestos of his overly humble abode

Ugly brown splotches like abscesses on the tattered comforter that he wraps around himself, a metallic odor stirred like a soup in the air by the creaking ceiling fan, he is reminded of those tender tattoos upon his left arm

Self-loathing pulls on his every nerve, throwing wave after wave of pain, both physical and not, onto his long-damaged conscious, his own hatred for himself plucking at his sanity, his humanity

as he becomes but a simulacrum for a swine,
not even as worthy of the title,
for even such a lowly animal has utility in this world, but not he

Drifting off to another day, one that he wished would not come,
a bright smile and laughter fills his desperate thoughts, stirring him from his weariness and softening the perpetual frown upon his ragged, unshaved face

And as he flies away from the despair of that rundown motel, reaching for the cotton candy clouds as he rides the Ferris wheel
of his childhood, the warm breeze wafting greasy goodness and fresh paint, he feels at ease for the first time in a long time,

but he snaps out of this trance, suppresses these memories, scared that he may taint them with his pathetic self and darkness, perverting the only lengths of his life that have value, the only parts dyed with an emotion that was not anger or sadness, and so he pushes them inside, keeping them buried deep, like a jealous dragon guarding treasure undeserved

And it hurts again.

From this lovely world forgotten (or rather one not to be remembered), he descends once more into this living Hell. His innards writhing like a snake, shedding its sickly green skin, tears screaming empty threats at his eyes, hollowed lies for he does not have any left to spare, he mourns the loss of innocence

Turning to see that rusted pair of scissors on the unpolished wooden desk, a paintbrush reserved for a special hue, he thought to drown his needless emotions in his art

Sitting up and reaching once more for the weapon with which he would smite the only true enemy, he painted

Long strands of crimson surfaced from his canvas, and the ground began to spin, the stars in his eyes applauding his brilliance, and feeling accomplished in having dealt sweet retribution onto this villain, he collapsed onto the ground

With time, the drawing would fade, the emotions would return, the paint would dry up, leaving behind another mark on the bedsheets, and when that happened, he will once more construct his masterpiece forged in blood

I see life through a crystalline window
Colorless so that my vision is untainted
Yet ironically still deceiving in its transparency
For through the many facets of this jeweled facade
My sight scatters into many dimensions
Unable to focus on a single aspect
So that something as simple as an iron needle
Becomes a cage of interconnecting rods
Binding my thoughts in an imaginary jail
In the matrix created by the morphed glass
My eyes: where simplicity is corrupted
To a kaleidoscope of unwarranted complexity

He didn't say goodbye to me
As he closed his eyes for the last time
And fell asleep in an eternal dream
A state that is far more sublime

He didn't even thank me
For giving him a home
Or providing him food and water
Sharing what I owned

I walked with him
Talked to him
Pet his hairy head

I lived with him
Stayed with him
And this is what he said

"Hi owner, how's it going
I owe to you quite a bit
But I'm a dog so I can't do much
Except maybe fetch or sit

Instead, I'll remember
The nice things we did
Together while I lived

I'm going to go
And I won't return
But I'll leave with you a gift

It's all the cool fun memories
Those things inside your head
That you sometimes think about
When you're alone or before you go to bed

And even though it's not a lot
I'd like to let you understand
That it was a blast being by your side

And that I hope I was a good friend"

Through the rain
A burning dove
Sings of the pain
Unrequited love

Like a blanket of gold upon my chest
This love that I perceive to be
More of a blessing than a burden
Still weighs deeply on my spirit
Drenching it in pain and doubt

And the more I feel this feeling
The more I realize how hard it is
To hold on to it
Like tiny silver fish
Slipping through the net of my heart

As if a brilliant jewel
She dulls everything else
Sapping all that was fair
And all that I once saw with a smile
Only reminds me of her

Memories and contacts
However trivial
Intertwine themselves
With every silken strand
Of my soul

And though it may sound like torture
A curse wished onto ill-thought persons
It is an addiction that I prefer not to shake
Because when it is all over
I will be stripped of all things attached

And nothing will be left

Truth be told, I have nothing to say
Nothing of worth to fill up your day,
So I apologize for wasting your time
As you read this useless series of rhymes.

There once was an immortal man who thought he had it all
The world in his hand, resting in groove of his palm
And nothing could or would stop his conquest
Until he met a challenge that he simply could not best.

He had as long as he needed to beat this task
But he got it, couldn't do it, and gave up just as fast
Avoiding this issue, he sulked through his years
And too proud was he to stop and dry his tears.

And soon he slipped into a sour state
His stubbornness leading him to a horrifying fate
That of a human who is unable to be just that
Feeling less like a dude, more like a dog, chimp, a rat

Day in and day out, he remained in his chair
Fearing another obstacle, he stayed in his lair
And for that matter, his skin became pale
And his eyes, ears, and even nose began to fail.

Yet to this day he is still barely alive
And in his agony, his inhumanity he still writhes
Thinking about that thing that he could not defeat
Wishing that stain on his life, he could delete.

The death of a man is not when he stops breathing
But rather when he stops believing
In the fact that there is always something to be gained
A rainbow most often finds its way when it has just rained

People have been searching for a way to live forever
Which should be the same as never dying, aren't I clever?
If we simply keep on living,
Never stopping, always giving,
Then we'll keep on getting
Finding something worth the suffering,
And that version of immortality sounds a hell of a lot better.

I eat my corn dog
ketchup on my chin,
and the frogs croak,
while the crickets chirp,
warm air pressing gently on my skin.

A cool breeze tugs my shirt,
carrying a faint smell of cinnamon.

The cries and laughs of children
heard vaguely in the distance.

The birds' singing dies down
as the sun begins to set,
resting for another round,
as it hides its gilded coronet.

Yet the lights of the carnival
reflect like little stars
on the pond's surface,
dainty and novel,
shining without a purpose.

Just for that moment
I am unable to move,
for the night air takes my breath
and my body the darkness soothes,
so that all my pain melts away
as does this passing day,
and I let go of my regret.

I stop pondering whether I'm still sane,
for this moment I wish to remain
petrified like a Vesuvian
and all my worries, I soon forget.

And in those delicate seconds of clarity,
I feel like I truly understand
the meaning of my humanity,
of this abstraction that I perceive as actuality
what it is I really demand.

Everything in harmony
brimming with lucidity;
in utter awe of life,
constant serendipity.