I've learned that happiness
cannot be found in the form of a little
purple capsule.
I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time.
I've learned that the third mushroom
held in my sweaty palm was not as
big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind.
I've learned that a part of me
died that night where we ****** in a
room with no furniture.
I've learned that life is work and that
the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac
that came spewing from me left an orange tang
upon the floor.
I've learned that pain is better than numbness
and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm
was an educated decision.
Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.

My fists are made of iron
And my arms of lead
Grafted to concrete shoulders
That bear my fragile head

For within that shell I am
For within hell I am
A fortress of man
A foretold tale without a plan

Despair not, for hell is only in the mind
As is all, that ever was
For the universal gears still grind
Churning forth, through thick and thicker
No chance to get left behind
but carried on, the universe still
Timely gets us there
Through hell, and all men's minds
Mechanically without a care.

i’ve spent the last
six months of my life
dying to die
with no results.
and in that time i’ve
been walking
on a sidewalk that
is crooked and cracked
into some godforsaken
place. through my journeys
i’ve come to rely
on two certainties:
that i will go to bed
unsatisfied and hungry.

and every night is
a rainy one and cats eat
the fur and bones of dogs dead
in the flooded gutters. the grey
monoliths of the city
are always a step away, but
i don’t get any closer.

and if i could give back
all the cigarette ash and whiskey
i’ve drank i’d do it because
i’d be losing blank meaningless
memories, or at least
they mean nothing to me. i can’t
say the same about
those people in the memories.

and i passed the corner
where i sat drunk on the brick
with my friend, smoking
a cigarette and i remember
telling him that it was
going to be alright. i don’t
know if i was lying or if
i didn’t know the truth
but he left.

and i walked by the home
of my first love and the windows
were dark and the cars were
gone from the driveway.

and i found myself in front
of the house of the girl
i loved who didn’t love me
and the air was black, save
for the glare of a lighter through
the rain and i remembered
a dream i had.

My room is a mausoleum
Housing this living corpse.

The windows are always shut
And the lightbulb stays off.

A fan on the ceiling blows,
Though not hard enough, 24/7.

There're empty water bottles
Discarded on the floor

By the dozens serving as
Unofficial decor.

Filthy clothes everywhere
Mingle happily as

If ****** with the ramen cups
And chocolate wrappers.

A skyscraper built from books
Raises it's ink stained arms

Up towards the concrete sky
Pleading, crying, to be read.

Crumpled papers, like scriptures
Belonging to God, yell

Unfinished lines of poetry
During the Dead's strolling.

The aroma of burnt cigs
Stains the air and green walls.

Another wine bottle hides
In the closet, elixir

For the trapped. A skull, candles,
And a pack of tarot

Sit expression less and
Calm inside the nightstand.

Posters and poems line the walls,
Their eyes observe the goings.

A bed, the coffin, stands deep
In the peering darkness,

Stiff and terrible, alone,
A headstone slab pillow,

Accommodate the carcass.

The writer’s life is called lonely;
They dream in desolate lands
As they sink into their solitary sleep-
They see things not made by hands.

They wander o’er the wild places
That their intrepid dreams take them to.
They speak to the hidden dream faces
That e’ery night they imagine anew.

Every night they are doomed to wander,
But not all who wander are lost,
For their day-work is inspired by lands yonder,
And of all the dream-places they have crossed.

Thus, the poet is ne’er to be called lonely,
Though they dream of lonely places.
They see more than us in their visions nightly-
And speak to their hidden friends with hidden faces.

The light is like a spider.
It crawls over the water.
It crawls over the edges of the snow.
It crawls under your eyelids
And spreads its webs there--
Its two webs.

The webs of your eyes
Are fastened
To the flesh and bones of you
As to rafters or grass.

There are filaments of your eyes
On the surface of the water
And in the edges of the snow.