i am the heart
of these walls.

i have nowhere to go

only God can know that i am not grown
though they beg to differ so often

God only knows that i am so worn
and so
          so
old.

i apologize
fighting to find
fair rationale
that may contrast
the way i justify
the foolishness
of continuing
to provide
abode for this weight
when all it has
is novel means
of snapping my back

suffice it to say
my tolerance for pain
lies in a plain land
far far away
blanketed
on the outskirts

i will implore
should the scene need
for you to believe me
if nothing else
i’ve learned to suppress
my dignity
transiently

the only fear
is that it discover
the relief
of the darkness
under covers

- end

i miss you a lot.
but i'm more mad at you
than anything.

when i met you
i had nothing
not even a place to rest my head
when the sun did
and the moon lit
hand in hand with its soul mate
the night sky
like they always did
and always will
with the exception
of solar eclipses.

but those are just temporary.
they get angry at each other
but that's transient.
they always get back together.

i miss you.
a lot.
but i'm more scared
than anything.
because i can't tell
if we were like
the moon and the sky
or a solar eclipse.

when i feel down
for knowing i know
i don’t not
stoop low

i cut morbid
short circuits shorter
for torture. torn rapture
it incapacitates

and breaks order.
to do so
i con endorphins.

i feel small.
especially
when they grow
and go.



and i'm here. more
                                                            ­alone.
than ever before.



i resort not
to overflown words
nor spilled souls
poor or porous

they transform whole
into prose seldom spoke
almost as though
forced forward
fueled by formerly
foreign
external forces

and i'm a foreigner.
and i'm a xenophobe.

and i am
a vagabond gone rogue
to enforce laws and propose chaos

my thoughts provoke.

i ****** them to
withdraw.

they pass it on.
they're why i’m so
withdrawn.

to belong, i pass it forth.
and i'm so far gone
regardless, i will
keep
withdrawing.

my man
are you proud
of your hand
the one i have
woven around
my ham

tell me
is mama proud of you
does she call you a man?
does she know
she had everything
but a man?

that is, unless, of course,
mama's a crook like you
and she thieves like you too
and she can't help herself,
but she helps herself
to what she can't.

****.

like the shame you all are,
your whole ****.

i hate your name
i hate that i am
not
my own
man.

i find it unnecessary
to exchange mixtures of letters
with the receiver i once did see me
engaging in foreseen endeavors with
but history tore me and we  

though i now retract
exceptions are had
such as
when i choose to detract
the warmth i had way back
in the past
when our fire did not brand
but did attract
us to one another
not like now
and how it knows
how to protract
to engulf us
to turn good
into bad

i release resistant exhales
and doubt
on newfound callousness i once could
reroute
only when allowed by a sizable
payout
even if along the way

it cracks

the heart
i once had

and the heart
i once had
sworn
on my life
to pass
for
before

i
let it
pass.

they mistake me
often.
their heads lead them astray.
they judge books.
and covers.
and they correlate us
together
much too often.
although
they’re aware.
and they know
all too well;
better than ever to engage
in such cliches.
classic traps.

they call me
beautiful
often
they show me their sketches
of isolated circles.
i later come to find
are so enamored
they've merged into
one
vastly overlapping
ven diagram
each individually labeled
me
and
purity

how i wish they’d stop seeing
                      and start hearing
the words
my much too often
hyper-glamorized lips
try uttering
forewarnings
of appearances
and deception
before their whims
begin interrupting
the inevitable
is the contempt
their ignorant hearts
will build
and ultimately
i will suffer and so will
my will
power--

more so than will power
they don't know
possesses the ability
to observe me
through truly
objective
optic nerves  

ever will.