I am wisened by my wounds.
My thirst is sated by monsoons.
Scars teach me lessons.
Fighting for peace is my weapon.
Every memory changes a sliver of me.
Through time, i've turned into a motley pinata.
Pieced together haphazardly.
But i know what its like not to be afraid of taking a swing
and i know what its like to fly
because baseball bats give me wings.

stark coal tables that deny, to respond
entrenched in my own emotions,
places that seem as hopeless as
holes in the whole of germany,
otherwise would just be tables
but they arent
because as i ask questions again and again
it is they that shatter the sound waves,
they who break through to deny any lasting echo,
they who seem to forget that i asked any question at all.
They are traumatized men, attempting to unsee gunfire
that broke through their best friends hearts
that is what these tables are
naturally catatonic, or in the throes
of post traumatic stressful flashbacks that
snap back inside my head like
I was there too
Nova gas tastes like bittersweet memories
Bittersweet memories taste like gunpowder.
Like pennies.
like pens  that ive chewed through until the ink bleeds into my mouth
They leave open wounds in me,
i wound writing utensils.
Seems like we all value leaving our mark.
by scars, and by
ink sinking into skin and hearts.
Every man makes flesh his canvas.
****** is making a habit of starting many projects and never finishing any,
slashing strategic gashes across canvasses with no past infection,
unraveling every cotton fibre from the edges of that single stroke,

Suicide is scribbling every ounce of inspiration on a single sheet,
until you come to its end.


I , am guilty ,
of both.

It stirs my soul to say I am slave,
for thee, daddy, I shall mock ideas of freedom
cast forth by common and devilish cultures,
for thee i shall embrace another sort of freedom,
freedom under constraint,
constraint willfully chosen,
by infinite grace, ever applied in totality, to me,
freedom that says,
before I was a slave to sin,
now i am a slave to righteousness,
and joyfully so,
for being moved by your spirit,
i am ever able, when before i was helpless,
to choose that which pleases
the abundant master,
the master without end,
the existing one,
El Ro'i , the God who sees me,
me a slave chosen as friend,
me a friend adopted as son,
me a son lavished as heir
to that which i deserve not an inkling, or mite,
not jot, nor tittle,
not a word or breath from your lips,
none of that which you spoke or breathed into being.
Oh, God! I am a slave!Ever shall I be!
Thank you master that i be, ever slave, ever to thee.

stand in the kitchen
with your arms on my waist
whilst pouring my thoughts
into your capable mind,
with no need of worrying
about who will clean
up the spilled soul
that remains on the tiles.

I close my eyes in wait.

I’m waiting.
Waiting

Waiting for the hurt to give way to understanding
Waiting for dismay to give way to hope
Waiting for light to penetrate the dark
Waiting for gloom to pave way for glee

I’m still waiting.

I’m trying.
Trying not to feel. Not to think.
Trying to numb the pain that numbs my senses.
Trying to keep going. Believing. Loving.
Trying to overcome the contradictions that challenge everything I put my trust in.

Yes, I’m trying.

And then you come along.
Stare me in the eye, assuring.
You calm me, soothe, promise of a better land.
I believe you.

I feel no need to try anymore.
There’s no more waiting.

Who said death isn’t beautiful?

Poison.
The words flowing from your mouth,
and with each dose I become more and more impaired.
With each dose life slips
from my once warm body.
The thought of one more word
drives me to bizarre extremes,
extremes that are even too
extreme for the most extreme
Extremes!
Congratulations.
You've done it,
you've broken me down so far,
even I, don't know where I've gone off to.
You won't find me on a milk carton,
on the news,
or any plastered up posters across town.
In fact you won't find me at all.
I've gone missing, yes.
But I'm very much still here.
Hanging onto every word.

I'll cry to the moon,
write poems to the stars,
but at 6 am what's on my mind,
is morose pouring rain,
synchronized with my heartbeat.
I don't know what's it in rain that brings out tragedy,
gray skies and drops of water,
making people feel sad and abandoned.
All I know, is sadness commands my body,
reminding me of everything that's wrong,
all that is gone.
And maybe God is crying,
because of the world he sees from above.

When the time comes
I want the lights on.

When the time comes
I want you to look at me.
To see me.

When the time comes
I don't want to cover my curves.
I want you to touch them.

When the time comes
I want the lights on.