It starts as pain
twisting anguish in the chest
tightening anxiety pulling at your lungs

breathe
heaving the weight of your own body
your flesh and blood like stone

it demands an
offering
votive sacrifice
of blood or be it even soul
sacred fluid coursing the capillaries
tracing the form of your spirit

let loose, let loose this
this holy script
this holy spirit
adding myself to it
to this

this holy ink

to be one upon the page
bound to the leaf
bound to the word
bound to the will
of something beyond myself
at the mercy of
at the care of
at the will of
something beyond myself
awoken for
tortured for
spoken for
something beyond
us

I'm sick of all these metaphors
and simile
that compare you to a delicate flower
a rose from concrete
beautiful find among the cracks of pavements
as a rose without thorn
because you are none of these
not some delicate little bird
fragile
hollow bones
to be gently touched
guarded and protected
from the cruel unforgiving world
A woman
the other half of man
the beacon of light that brings me home
the warmth of your body fights my frigid soul
your emotion to my reason
your logic to my rage
a flower is a decoration
and a bird a pet
a partner
an equal
woman
worthy of admiration

There is a relationship
between my liver and my brain
it would seem
the more i drink
the more i write
the pain in the gut
daggers in the abdomen
razors in the intestines
that pull at the silent strings of sleep
back to the discourse of life
to the mechanic birds that sweep the streets
raptors eye glow beneath the clouds
fingers dig into the flesh
a welcomed pain
to take away from the agony within
four am and im still awake
dry mouth
sore throat
the cough never stops
between gasps for breath
teeth clamp down  upon the lower lip
just a moment more
let the fingers sweep across the board
before they return to the side
to help subside the acid boiling inside
let the keys click to carry me
crutch through the night
until the eyes fall
and i may awake to a paragraphs of letters
forming the same patterns as the lines on my face
i watch the sunrise
with tears in my eyes

I hate you
because your poems end in rhyme
your prose is feeble and weak
when i read your words
i wish your hear you voice
spoken to me
the passion
the anger
the pain
of a poet
for whom do we write these words?
a significant other
who's pants we wish to delve
or the demon on my shoulder
the shiver of my spin
my skeleton shudders at the thought
Ginsberg doesn't ring a bell?
I wear black.
because i am in mourning
of the arts you killed
a eulogy is in order
for the younger generation
grow duller the as they age
mind blunted
blunted
like the blade of wit for which i weep
no longer lines cut like blades
but punch lines mashed up with terrible rhymes
i've never heard a poet
but a comedian bard upon the stage
i wish to laugh but instead i lament
i cry for the youth walk the pavement
eyes turned inward
ears sealed shut
little white buds
to fill walls of their skull with more endless rhyme
convincing them that
this ****
THIS **** RIGHT HERE
RIGHT HERE IS ART
so please, dont let me into my zone
for i'll take that mic from your hands
and shoot your down
drop to your knees
and die
for not an artist lives
for the future
my future
our future
is thoroughly ******