remember that when
your wavering soul
catches fire
for the second
or hundredth
time

when you call on me
once more
misery boiling over
a cascade of every
decision, you
never made

i will not be there
you are alone

I am so often offended
By the brokenness of men
So let's resume the music
Clueless of the evidence
Of our improbable evolution
Mention my name to the same old songs
We are stronger now than we were then
Are we to blame for the way we came here
Standing on our innocence
Lest we defy the painter’s faith
The same old shapes are whispering again
That I am the sound that never gets found
And how can we be proud of our too loud relatives
Whenever jilted lovers become our mothers
In their pain and their nakedness
We forget ourselves completely

the last time he went out of
his mind he liked it
so much there
that he never came back

not even after the
alcohol left
his blood

he keeps writing to this day

addresses women with 'sweangel'
a combination of sweet
and angel, I guess

but never spends more
than a matter of weeks
with any of them

some take pity on him
and some morbid curiosity

but no one loves him
truly
only his insanity

but that handle was made for his hand
hand - handle
handle - hand

the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade...
the blade was still naked. He couldn't let
the blade naked
It wasn't fair

"So that's why you stabbed your
mommy then?" the psychiatrist asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"The knife is more important
to you than mommy?"

"The knife listens. Mommy doesn't."