There is no escape from yourself once you turn seven shades of blue

You can scream at death and brush away the leaves but your grave will always have a body that decieves even after being filled with sawdust and glue

Bound to anger and rebellion you struggled to let anyone in
Bindings so tight, fingers turned black like that night
Screaming, crying, attempted flailing
You tried so hard to not give up the fight
You succumbed to the blight

Your mom couldn't even recognize the cold leather bound over these bones that are told to be you
Malnutrition claimed stake to the body
Amphetamines numbed the mind and caused leishons to start rotting

No escape in death
No escaping breath
Hollowed head from a chest filled with ****

Your life shrunk, grew diseased and immature
Beaten senseless and tied to the headboard
Did you suffer? No one can say for sure

Buried with little more than the foegiviness of a closed casket and the permanantness of an abused life
The only memento you'll carry on is the form fitted ligature marks and consciousness derived of strife

Waltzing under red moonlights
as thorns tear tongues. We laugh
with black roses reposed in the mouth.

Severed Bonds serve savour songs, as Love leaves longing letters in ponds
of heavy healing hearts.

We waltz still, not as statues but  temperative trumpeters tailing tundras with tabinet tufts.

Mother I tempered with the forces
I became a villain in the story I've written
Mother remember me chasing pavements
The ardency of the gnaw
The absurdity
Mother remember the box of darkness
The dirt in my fingernails
When the moon fell
And my guts sat heavy on my chest


Mother remember, the sweet sun on our backs before the severing from the cradle you sang to
The wind was a lullaby
Blue stained onto my faculties
Mother impending doom sits
In the pit of my stomach still
Mother don't worry, I quietened the blood
I stitched the hem of the undone
The sunrise in the east breathed life into my body
And those hands
Mother I made a home out of a bruise

There's distant scratching like strings on a loose violin and rain shattering against the hood of a shambling man passing me from a place I've never been.

This night seems to bring a comfortable chaos like the sound of a dying drum inside a weaning rib cage with the wind that screams through trees mimicking a wheezing child's vocal range.

Each step forward is a chant from an old god and each drop of blood is a sip from the paradigm, voices scream and hiss from the nearby fog while I climb down a mountain I've never climbed.

Bones snap and buckel while fingers curl and twist, blistering skin ***** that insects suckle and searing eyes that unfurl and wince.

There are things worse than nightmares, like an orchestra without strings or a breath without voice. Something simple to grasp but impossible to understand if you live without choice.