The peace in the pieces
left from the war
Mock and spit at us
in every direction
But the veterans
look down from heaven
Or wherever they went
And tell us
to ignore them
They are wasted and spent

-cj

To be carried
No footprints
In the snow
Or traces
In the wind
A travesty
Against nature
A sin against
Integrity
But I fall
And am swept up
And I do not say a word
For I know
Without these arms
Is the end of the world

-cj

searching for some odd sort of solace
and yet again,
i find myself writing words i don't really mean
to people i don't really know
about topics i've not really researched
all in the name: poem
this is not my war

it's like i'm standing naked on the front lines
all weariness and flesh
melancholic in my voice,
"take arms, and fight."
this was never my battle, but it rages in my mind
and my troops aren't gathering
my hands, too weak to hold up my blade
my pen
this is not my war

so, once again,
it's dark and i'm finding ways to poetically knife myself
without the blood and romance staining my bed sheets
and marking cryptic patterns on my wall
in hopes that my fellow aesthetes
will find them pleasing when i post them
this is not my war

and honestly,
i've never found anything beautiful about sunsets
because the dying of another day
didn't make me feel like stardust
but more like a handprint on a wall
being threatened with fresh paint
this is not my war

i'm not ready
this is not my war

I'm a walking weapon.

Did ya know I can **** giants?

I slaughtered something giant in my mothers heart  when she overheard me playing with the devil.

You can't spell slaughter without laughter.

On a family vacation
To the mountains of Tennessee,
We were on a hike,
And my Mother said to me,
She had grasped a tiny twig,
To break her from her fall.
She laughed at the irony.
"That isn't much help at all."
Right now, I feel like she did.
This scenario is foretold.
If I fall, I'm falling hard -
And there's no sturdy branch to hold.

I feel like trash being ready
to be picked by whoever has
the worst taste
finding out later
that they only needed the bag.
emptying my contents on to the grass
half broken and dismembered
pieces of glass left behind from the time
I broke my mirror
unfinished 40 ounces from winter break.
the first time I ever got drunk and threw up.
It felt good.
Half a dozen 8ths
I smoked for a whole month
after she left me and my parents
kept lecturing me about
how much I ****** at
being alive

there is lavender
in the fire, someone
is tapping
on the window, patterned
with cracked kings and
predecessors.

sarah’s bible, hand held,
open via perspex
and blue velvet
at ecclesiastes
chapter three.

to everything
there is a
feafon, etc,
in italics.

sbm.