I don't know what made everybody this way,
but I hope it has nightmares.

For the record most of my writings are lies
and fickle emotions.
You can call me a hypocrite and I won't fight you.

I'm just being ****** to an audience;
It's so selfish to lash out and say I love you,
and I know it.

The internet has killed the value of everything,
and sometimes I wonder where we'd all be
if we were behind typewriters sending transcripts
to ****-head publishers who trash the mail,
or burn it in winter. Not quite kindling.

We'd be in the hole about five dollars more,
and still cashing **** paychecks, if we're
lucky enough to get jobs.

Maybe living out of boxes, suitcases,
the backseat of a stranger's car,
or squatting in a basement with
three different species of arachnid.
Romantic.

Anyone who envies the experience
of the oppressed is a ******* *****,
and deserves exactly what they
are so eagerly wishing for.
Everything else is just information.

"My life is ruined, man",
he said, not having sipped his beer
or taken an anxious sip on his cigarette
in a hot second.
He was a stranger to me, breathed heavily,
overweight, but made of gold it seemed.
My friends were wasted and we were sitting on the roof
after a long night of them getting drunk.
"All our lives are ruined", I replied naively.
"But it's heroine man", he told me,
"Nine out of ten people addicted to heroine die from it."
He was right, at whatever right was.
"You're going to be that one, then.", my friend chimed in.
"I know, it just ***** everyone else is going to die", he continued.
I laughed.
"Don't laugh at that", I was reprimanded.

**** though, everyone else dies too.
I can't stand this place between dying
and being cripplingly apathetic about everything,
and most people I know live it. That edge.
I don't know a lot of people too excited about
waking up and going through the motions.
Most of us think about dying when we're happy;
not quietly into the night but quietly.
Just disappearing in a flash without light.
An instant, but quicker.

******* salt my open wounds
and eyeballs, eye sores,
eyes are swelling up and
I'm war-chanting,
"Break ****, steal ****."
Start ****, I don't care,
I am a tempest of vulgarity.
Obscenity on high.
I am the meteor that kills
all the dinosaurs.
I am the myth that stops kids
from killing each other
by force of nightmares,
an inherent moral dialogue.
I am the rush.
I am the rush.
I am the rush.
Rush of words that knocks you off
your privileged *** and only takes
your ******* wallet.
******* salt my open wounds and
I will hurt you back.
Not out of my ******* nature,
but because I am.
I continue choosing to be.
Consciously.
I am the rush.

Came out of the heat and into a strange simmering ***;
my mother accepted the responsibility of a baby
for about half an hour or so.
It cried.
It cried so **** much.
She tried to hand it off to me, and I
dodged that mother-sucker like the plague.
Of the top three things I "don't",
babies are two.
******* it cried so much.
That's all I have to say.

It started with a pen,
and wound up in English.
No diction, addiction, or
ambition,
to get published.
“Don’t scream and you’ll look normal.”
Screaming “MISOGYNY!”
if screaming at all,
I’ve seen the great minds of
my generation
addicted to Adderall.
 
Some friends who get wasted,
and I remain sober.
Cheap ‘03 cars, yet,
no ones coming over.
 
Actors without work now,
no one with opportunity.
Suicidal crazies now,
crafted from 80’s and 90’s responsibility,
and A is for Adderall.
 
Sugar coated heroine,
designer drugs.
Poor blacks, whites, mexicans,
and asians swept under the rug.
 
“The father, the son,
the invisible hand.”
 
Crack in prisons, *****,
holy ******* in a BMW,
Feminism, becomes communism,
becomes atheism becomes you.
You so counter-culture,
you forgot about us,
“She’s not an angel friends,
throw her under the bus.”
 
Politicians in purple now,
blessed American royalty.
Slaughter the disenfranchised,
poor, socialist regime,
and A is for Adderall.
 
Don’t shoot the police,
shoot the children instead,
or send them to war,
but the war had to end.
“In god we trust, but
in the market we invest.”
So occupy Wall Street,
and get called a hippie,
or occupy college,
and become a dead beat?
 
In high school you’re told,
be what you will be.
Cancer is still a…
“…”
…Hereditary disease.
 
Actors without work still.
Politicians lying still.
Suicidal crazies.
Ecstasy filled crazies.
Counter-culture conformist.
Culture conformist.
Eco-terrorist.
Mindless consumer.
Junkies, addicts,
soldiers, students,
leaders, followers,
murderers, democrats,
conservatives, liberals,
republicans, child molesters,
sexists, racists.
 
No more labels.
 
It was every single individual.
Individual failure.
One by one, we were all found guilty.
You are guilty. I am guilty,
and
A is for Adderall,
and the new marginalized.

"Walk my eggshells?" I drool like a dog,
something you're eager to **** with
and dispose of.
I should walk your eggshells
like a minefield in first
world countries?
Mold on your fruits of love or labor,
yet I eat like ******* swine,
aftermath; no hope or sense of self,
**** my sense of identity senseless,
since September still yet towards
another fake continent or mass
of fictional places.
Stuffed back into a box and strangled,
slept next to the coffin he was buried in.
Didn't find it poignant until eight
weeks later washing dishes
for a Latverian dictator.
Google took the teeth out of the search,
and the hand that fed was gummed.
You love the rain till you're stuck in it.
You love escape till you have no home.
You love what you can abuse
and still take home;
Violet on your skin,
Violet on my mind,
Violet for a dream,
Violet for a name,
Violet in my blood,
Violet on my toes,
Violet as a drug,
Violet as an insect
you eat in private,
Violet as violet as violet
as a tautology,
or addictive prescription.
Once I had the leash on you,
now the sores have come back,
my knees and palms make
sick ******* with earth
I cough.

Finally watched Pacific Rim...
Wanted to make Ron Perlman jokes about a dog's ***
looking like Ron Perlman's face.
but then Ron Perlman showed up.
It's like he knows.

I am;
something you forget.

Remember
after.

You don't really care
about me. If you did
I wouldn't be.

Your care for me is
a consolation prize.
An apology.

I'm there after the people.
After the places.
Behind the background.

I'm after words.
After reaction.
After thought.

I met Helen on tinder, and we kinda just had a standoff with words for a day. Then we followed each other on Tumblr and found our mutual love of 90's anime.
So tonight she's coming over to use my bathtub for a bath bomb, since she doesn't have her own, and in turn I'm getting two tickets to the Cleveland Orchestra.

Last night my room mate threw up drunk and I passed out after drinking a whole bottle of Irish Cream while cleaning the bathroom and trying to do the first verse of "Encore" over any song I could find.
She came home and just gasped at all the hair and dust moved out from the room.

Now she's smoking in it. ****.

I'm numb in the fingers and hands and just trying to not throw up. I'm having bouts of depression and anxiety and this ***** Caitlyn Sessor, Cessor, I don't even know, won't show me any mercy, or give me a break at work. She wants my ******* head.

I just want to sleep for two weeks straight and have money again.

*******, and it's definitely past afternoon.
I need a better motivation than coffee
and people possibly leaving me alone.
I slept in my clothes
and smell like fire.
Ignition- I need to
ignite something.
I'm scared
of drugs though. Talk about
drugs; even a prescription.
We were making sense once.
My face has melted like butter
into the flannel sheets
and pillow
cases. Be awake for what?
Dreaming lucidly but
unaware- just like real life?
I don't think I've woken up.
I just have coffee in me now.
I've been on both feet.

They'll recognize me
by the sound of thunder in
my reputation.

I am no hero,
and I'm no antagonist.
I'm common at least.

Somehow I touch you
and you are changed, and it means
nothing about me.

They will know me by
a storm of fates, bent centers,
violent in the wind.

Some people just drink it all away,
and sure you can misfire but we all die sooner or later.
This is a small part of an ongoing stand up routine
that ends in personal self destruction. I’ll continue.
I am my own voice, and I consume that which
over time has become redundant in uselessness.
I stand horizontally between two extremes;
Somewhere between “not quite invincible”
and “rancid with mortality”. Conscious effort,
and I play the fool who reasons with serpents
by keeping no literal distance.
A shape into itself. No thread in the needle’s eye.
A cloud that eats clouds.
A saint to anyone that would worship in a mirror.

I rang in the new year alone and sometimes
she says, "smoking would be better."
Maybe I'll pick up smoking.

"literally stop talking."
Asks if I speak in non-sequitors,
because "normal" conversation
bores the **** out of me.

Doesn't feel pain, barely sleeps
mostly numb, doesn't sleep, doesn't care.

Haven't seen many other people.
Smiles a lot. Breathes deeply.
Hates so much.

Mostly alone.
Doesn't mind.

Sometimes I feel like
I know all of the sad girls
in the whole wide world.

They call me crying,
or text me in the middle
of panic attacks.

They want attention
but only for themselves so
I disappoint them.

Morally bereft;
selfish for not suffering,
or not like they do.

I am an angel,
but only by default, or
just for being here.

Only for staying
a stationary angel;
to suffer with them.

I have grown heavy,
from their tears and loneliness
and their jealousy.

I can't fall asleep,
at least easily, because
of all the sad girls.

You thought you knew anger,
but it was spite in a thin foil wrapper,
poised like candy,
poisoned with tiger's whiskers.

Harbored depression since elementary,
but didn't know the weight till it was
in your stomach and your fists
and you cringe with pain
every time you talk.

Relieved to hear somebody say they can't
give a **** about what you feel like.
Medicine; snake oils,
cured to hear that you can't
give a **** about what I feel
like anyways.

God graced us with it's absence.

Thought you knew absence
middle school crying
in bed over how insignificant you are,
but bitter nihilism
dropping out of college twice
taught you emptiness.

Keep thinking that thought uncovers
more direction and technique,
beauty through function,
but
John Cage is meaningless as a system
and chaos as a instrument of
wonder and progress.

The amateurs think
about what the legends do.

We make peace with closed fists
and sing poems to our children
about war;

“It only happens once in a while.”

We spray everything red and cry in our hands,
we crush our heads in our palms.
Shake tambourines for spare change,
and claw at untuned unfinished guitars.

Daylight fades, and darkness stumbles in,
alcohol on its breath,
a mix only sailors and their widows drink.
It’s harassing someone for a **** or a fight,
because it longs to be touched and feel it,
to shed some ****** fluid
and feel drained of the pressure
of desperation.

Make everything around you like Jazz.
Some variation of jazz;
Cowboy Bebop, 3rd Strike,
Folk Music, Dress in Yellow,
Moon Knight or Doom [PhD]?,
Zero, Coffee or Water,
Late night chinese food for dinner.

Sleep on floral patterns.
Flannel.
Hang Christmas lights inside.
White T-shirts.
Hello Kitty.

Feminism + Nihilism,
Ethnicity? Are you half black,
or
half white
?

Make everything around you Jazz,
or some variation, write music,
write a poem, try to move on.
Stay autonomous.
Keep teaching yourself.

I don't know, I guess.
I was trying too hard to be brilliant,
however, **** it I'm a genius,
and brighter than a million suns,
and they might never look at me,
but at least I'd know why.

Stay autonomous. Teach yourself.
Make everything some variation of jazz.

It seemed like a good idea.

Something special is dying here.
I'm going against a pattern,
and even though it ends
in my misfortune,
I can't stop. I won't stop.
How do I draw blood from stones
as a miracle whispered through
the tonsils of demons? Simple.
I am a monument.
A testament of free will gone awry.
I'm a mustache twirling antagonist;
I made Christ weep,
and bound his mother
to the railroad tracks.
I know, I know,
that hero is going to save your day,
and I'll be in chains or
in a bottomless hole somewhere,
but let me ask these victims,
"What would the other monument be,
if not for myself?"

If the world keeps screaming I’ll break the night,

I’ll turn it around, I’ll bend the notion.

If the height gets steeper, don’t make a sound.

"Sacrifice yourself" is the name of religion.

Spinning the gears and faking frustration,

while the system fakes a male ******.

Here is your chance to go sour and

I hope you have the guts to walk into this trap;

If nothing is real, or we’re made out of sin,

what is the image of God?

I am not willing to be forgiven,

I am not the victim of your forgiveness,

I am not forgiven, I am not a sinner,

and I’m not a martyr for your God.

I’m just Austin Heath,

dying, and leaving nothing behind,

in the name of no one or no idea,

and not even poignantly.

Just mediocre.

We put gas in our tanks and pretend
all our claws are clean and pick at the bones
and the guts and we’re not satiated.

We give our souls and smiles and bodies and ****,
we’re not gifts or garbage, we’re human slot machines.

We are sterile in our thoughts,
and septic everywhere else
in a fashion that’s tasteless,
yet not obscene.

Donate clothes to the poor through
homophobic institutions because
what else can we really do?

Powerless, and yet so convinced we’re going to
fight the bureaucracy some day, and **** yeah
spell check writes half of my good **** nowadays.
I navigate online dictionaries seldom and cowardly.

Most of my writing is anti-revolutionary in the sense
that I hate what I desire intellectually and sincerely
but only because I want it so ******* bad,
and in the end I’m powerless
and empty and distant.

Silver-tongued soothsayer
with a voice of gold but
breath like mercury,
sing me a future full of
blue nights
&
days that seem to always
sit at the horizon.

Feed me opiates through dreams,
through tubes
down the back of my throat,
where I turn them into
poisons for my body to feast on.

Force them into my genetic make-up;
let me replicate a beautiful nightmare
out of my marrow and exhale
careless sociopathic lies
to ******* strangers and
******* with first names
I don't need to remember.

Let me be Ohio's last astronaut;
my head is past clouds,
my body, beyond earth.
Sympathy will be reserved
for those who have lost
their hearts, their hope,
their homes, their minds,
their control,
their bodies,
their functions,
their...

Yes.
Their dreams.

Spent 4 dollars on the light gun game
in the Barcade, and beat it,
and there are no high scores,
just 2am and sore eyes and
lactic acid in the elbow.

We're all rats chewing holes in
the ship we stow away on.
Sinking in a desperate hunger.

You don't know me, and, so...
don't pretend to anymore.

You don't talk much,
I don't talk much.
So, we don't talk much.
Yet, somehow, everything
is "fine". [citation needed]

Singing in the passenger side this time,
sitting on the vocals for the perfect song,
waiting to make you cry.

I am your doll, full of needles;
We fight by cuddling in armor
padded with barbed wire and thorns.

Mutilated "lovers". [citation needed]
Cold wars and cold tongues and shoulders,
and tired of all the *******, but whatever.
Everything's ******* now.
Nothing is fine, or good,
or okay...

Deifying the cops for saving people
is a lot like
worshiping a retail worker for checking you out.

I'm not a genius, I swear.
In fact, I used to have money.
I've seen a bit of America,
and I've seen a few
too many people.
It's all the same after a while.
Acres and faces,
you get the sinking feeling
that no one controls anything.
You get the idea.

Was touched by a witch.
Clawed at me while in her mouth,
but didn't draw blood.

Music in my head
too loud for a simple pain,
I'm begging for more.

Grabbing her wrists and
placing them where It's painful,
and nodding gently.

"More. Please, more.", I sigh.
She laughs, or giggles, I think.
Pleasure spiked with pain.

Yeah... she enjoys this.
Pure energy on her tongue.
Electricity.

Everything is papers,
words and looks,
power for power.
Undermined by the system,
"We don't cater to you."
"Takes money to make money."
Takes time,
I have none;
nothing to give?
Someday you'll find me lost
in a paper bag, throwing immature
punches. Breaking nothing.
Aiming for a glass jaw.
Waiting for the dirt,
and everything else
is just...

there.

Americana folklore,
the modern vintage spoiled.

Early 2000's became the
dystopian 80's nightmare;
beans spilled by bloodied action heroes

part time self fulfilling prophecies.

No religion as a crutch.
We slay God as a fire breathing dragon,
and go to war in 1st world countries
because we're ******* mercenary psychopaths
America as patriotism is nationalism is
patriarchy is violence is a tautology.
America is America.

Has been and always will be;
stupid, violent, full of "grace"
[grace like plastic china].

They say Abe Lincoln was honest,
and they say Jesus wept.
Yeah, Jesus Wept, *******.

I'm panhandling my music because,
who even gives a **** about anything else?
I certainly don't.
"I'm gonna quit" I tell them,
and start recording new material.
I should burn them; burn every *******
instrument in this room and get poisoned
on the fumes and die in my sleep. In pain.
Haha. Laugh, it's just a dark comedy.
I'm going to quit, ******* sell out,
and sell cigarettes or invent an engine
that makes rich people money and runs
on labor, sweat, tears, and blood.
I'll... ******... haha... wait, I'm really laughing
because if I made it they'd find a way.
Tell me you don't get it-
those ******* rat *******
would make my engine
RUN.

When I'm sad I read john cage,
Play a game, listen to jazz,
Watch a tutorial,
Watch the professionals,
Exist distracted.

I am a meat cleaver of a creature,
I am an old ******* and a ***.
I  am an adorable disaster,
A cute catastrophe.

I am...

Wearing a lot of yellow
To get through today.
Van Gogh ate yellow paint,
To be
Happy on the inside.

Deep royal purple bags under my eyes.
Hair that carelessly does exactly what I want it to.
To look perfectly exhausted.
Eyes that are overdriven
and burnt out.
A terrible demeanor
that idiots find charming.
A necessity to break something,
or a pent up anger that combusts
an engine of ill intentions;
Not just for me,
yes, for all of us.
Death howl
porcelain fingers
wooden spine
slightly violet.
Glass heart.
To kiss *** when pressed
and beg yourself you'll
give it hell later.
Pull the curtains off
and still see nothing.
Somehow useless like
a god or angel of death
or mercy.
Fantasy realized in the mind
that refuses to become reality.
A promise no one keeps.
Words spoken yet empty,
feeble, and without presence.
No sleep.
Trying to find the conscience.
Seeking the moral compass.
Where were you supposed to be?
Where's the wall and am
I against it? Buried in art,
"criticism of art", failing to hear
your laundry list of shortcomings.
Reading to yourself out loud
to see how ******* awful it is.
Pinching yourself.
Chewing your fingertips to stumps.
Seeing things.
Hearing things.
Dreaming things.
Wanting things.
Hoping for things.
Wishing for things.
Begging for things.
Waiting for things.
Getting nothing.

A painting of men,
tangled in a web of flesh.
Drifting into hell.

Drifting into sleep,
I put on your mix CD
to rinse my eyes clean.

I would pray for you.
Writing it gives me chills and
I might wash my hands.

I yearn for your arms,
and exhale daydreams of love.
Pretending to breathe.

I want you to breathe.
I choke you as we **** and
say something nasty.

You know, John Cage said,
"In the dark, all cats are black."
Maybe that's why we

close our eyes to kiss,
or sleep in each others arms;
We don't fear our night.

A phrase that people treat
like a joke, and that people
have failed to recognize the
significance of.
Black is beautiful.
Brown is beautiful.
Over breakfast foods I tried to
discuss how saying,
"I prefer white people/
I find white people attractive"
is subtle racism.
It was a difficult dialogue that
left me sick and empty.
The feeling of being more radical
than everyone around you.
Meeting a black girl who wants to be white,
hearing from all your friends,
"I just prefer white people",
I see, I see a dominant ideology that
places whiteness above everything else,
especially blackness. It is also a lie.
It is definitely racist.
It says that despite all other qualities a person may have,
their skin color holds them back in your eyes.
Instead I am told my ideas exist in a "box".
The reality of what I say is intensely real to me.
If you can't see the racism in yourself,
I'm not holding you to a quality where
you can point it out in others.
If you can openly pinpoint attractiveness to skin color
and just try to cop it out as "preference"
I am going to call you racist.
Black is beautiful.
Brown is beautiful.
You are not "naturally" attracted to white people.
In that phrase, you tell me it is unnatural for you
to be attracted to black people, or any person of color.
It is not natural. You have adopted the dominant ideology.
It is a subtle and now inherent racism.
I am tired of feeling sick because I'm the radical,
however it is a feeling I understand I will never escape.
It will follow me my entire life, I hope.
I'm sick of feeling marginalized because I recognize
sexism exists, and racism exists, and subtlety does not
******* hide it from me, I'm sick sick sick sick sick of it.
**** it though, I'd rather be sick my entire life,
and see the racism in me and others
than not see it, and just passively swallow that ideology.
I'll carry that weight in my guts,
not because I'm a martyr, because I ******* hate everyone;
because I love myself just that much.
I don't deserve to be that person anymore.
Black is beautiful.
Brown is *beautiful.

The depravity
of instinct might repulse you;
inhuman impulse.

The gods they create,
yet it's godless how they pray.
Prey upon the weak;

Those conscious angels
ugly by purity and
lust of good virtue.

We rot like they do;
with our eyes being closed as
our pulse cracks the night.

You wouldn't kiss me and cried and
I cried and I cried at work
and I cried at home and cried
myself to sleep
and woke up
numb and
empty.

You're still leaving aren't you?

It snowed all night,
and I slept from 5 till 6am,
and I still harbor this pain
and guilt and depression
and loneliness and sadness;
Solid bricks of sadness
pulling my chest into
my abdomen.

You've had a foot out the door for months.

You try too tell me I'm, "your best friend"
but I know how you treat your friends,
how you talk to your friends,
and I'm far from that. You lie and tell me
you love me, etc.
&
I hate you for this.

I will always hate you for this.
I gave you my love and you took it,
I gave you my heart and you took it,
and now you're walking away with both
and I have to pretend you're not hiding them
in your ******* back pocket or sock drawer?

I hate you for this, and
I will always hate you for this.

I just wanted your ******* love and affection,
I wanted to know you would be here for me,
and you would never ******* do that.
Not that you couldn't, you just didn't want to.
My life turns to **** and I'm struggling to
survive
and you tell me it's time to jump ship.

You shut me out and now you're throwing me away,
and in this sea of lies, somewhere I'm supposed to believe
nothing is my fault, and it stings that you can't even
tell me what went wrong and where you learned to
resent me.
I bet you're packing up my stuff as I write this.
I want to be less than zero and worse than dead.
I wish I could just sleep.

I'd promise you love isn't real, but you have mine
and it's gone with you, and now
there's nothing beautiful left in this world for me.
The snow is rising and it makes the distance
between us even farther.

Tomorrow is so uncertain that I'm convinced
if I can make today just a little brighter
I've succeeded. I've won.

I can't beat them.
You bob and weave without precision , swaying to a tune played poorly. Piercing eyes, and heavy hands, yet all the power behind those ten fingers
can't pay the rent on time, can't keep food in the cupboards, can't keep them out of your home. You are so much I cannot even imagine.

They come in like a storm, shuffling through the cracks in the doors and windows, a shiver up your spine, I can feel their breath on your neck. Cold.

Tomorrow is so, so very close, yet I'm convinced if I can sleep in my own bed tonight, they'll never find me. They'll have to wait like I do, till tomorrow, and till another tomorrow.

Everyone wants to know what
you're doing these days.
No, they just want to know
if you're disappointing them.
You will. That's me.
I want nothing but to be free.
Strings attached to everything.

Saw a statue, a memorial for
Christopher Columbus.
Reminded me I despise people,
and the rampant white supremacy
that everyone ignores or chuckles at
while keeping in place in their
own small and insincere ways.
I despise most strangers.

Need to paint it red with blood,
tear it down, cut off the hands,
set it on fire.
Want to make it hurt.
Tired of most things.
Why do the days take so long?
I feel like I'm not doing this
nihilism thing correctly.

Can't gain steady foot space
and I'm already trying to dance.

Carry on soldiers, and we'll pretend we don't notice you; the hollow shell/carcass of a wasp rotten black inside the window. Forgotten.

I'm sick to my stomach thinking of the rotten disappointment I'll become.

I feel the ties that bind us tighten, and bound our hands together as we crash into each other, and my love is the anchor that held this ship, and now pulls it down, churning, groaning, and bending in the middle. My hands on you go from desired to expected to pushed away, like a child treats their steamed vegetables.

I empty out, becoming the shell of what is a full man.
I empty out, becoming the shell of what was a full man.

Either that or I don't think much, anymore.

A cardboard box to place all your hearts into.
Squander the pretty things.
Cut everything into small shapes and pray
for grey clouds, rain clouds, secondhand smoke.
Something has to be destroyed again.
It is a season not for harvest,
but to gaze at something empty, cold,
and left in waste, helpless.

The side of the head collapses inward.
Bone snaps and the breath is so short
it would make you wonder if it happened at all.
It would amaze you how you have hurt others.
Like a pyramid in selfishness;
the Niagara Falls made in barbed wire
and infested with small biting insects.

You had to teach yourself, and it wasn't hard.
You taught yourself how to hate, but more so;
How to hate everything you know, to-
find flaw?- in everything you hold close to-
Hallelujah.
Angels with eyes eyes sewn shut, monsters,
monsters with white wings, feathered.

Flying. ****, I want more dreams of flying,
or even another dream of falling.
Always awake. Circles nourished by your
happiness are well fed under your eyes.
You are not.
You are not
falling or flying,
&
never in my life have they felt so similar.
So much the same.

...But you don't have a grave,
do you?
You own,
***** ****,
bugs in your clothes,
holes in your shoes.

[Crept in through a window;
He holds her close and says,
"You're everything I ever wanted."
She falls asleep, smiling.
He continues,
"But I'm also still looking."
Left through the back door.]

Left a note that said,
"Couldn't take the pressure."
Looked up the most painless way
to **** oneself on google.
Thirty minutes later,
added Medical Crisis Hotline
to my contacts.

The deliberate
Movement of the mountains, and
Flow of the ocean.

My hurricanes clean
My face of humanity/
Inhumanity.

I am barely man,
Only flesh on the surface.
Something of this world.

I am stone and sea,
Heart heavy and longingly
Dancing with eyes shut.

Dismissive riots unsuppressed
and erratic rays of bumblebee sirens
cause flinching in the ocular muscles
and meaningless reality folds
it's cards and chips and dies.
Life is life is happening
and is still at the table.

Everyone seems to get off on hating nihilism,
but until they find a hint of truth
lets stick to what we know.
Thats a joke.
I make jokes sometimes too.

Getting bitter,
not even for bitterness sake.
You keep picking that scab,
scratching that surface,
you'll never get to the blood of the matter.
4 am and who knows when or where  it ends-
****. Yes.
We just might not sleep tonight.
Paint it two shades darker and walk
with your head down.
Practically shameful,
or excellent in disguise.
Poised to strike;
Spat on someone's car yesterday.
10/10 would do again.
What leaps with teeth bare?

Do the trees just die

every season out of

a sense of habit?

Because it's really ******* degrading to put your
work everywhere, often times for free,
and to not even get **** back.
I'm also really ******* sick of teenagers.
Yeah, that means you too.
Here's a poem called,
"**** the Patriarchy!";
"Someone told me it's just as
reasonable for men to fear ****
on the streets, as women. I've
been dropped into place and now
I realize I'm a radical feminist.
The kind of feminist people
check for under their beds at night.
The unapologetic type of feminist
who doesn't believe
in a "loud minority" of men haters,
but an eager audience listening for them.
The kind who doesn't play for your
culturally and historically  inept *******.
The uncompromising feminist.
Patriarchy is a cage,
feminism is my hammer;
I'm not trying to get out,
I'm going to **** this place up".

I've ****** it up, I've tried
to rearrange the order,
or cut the syllables symmetrically.
I've only showed you the worst
I've got to offer.
Wanted to help,
but
when I was traveling
a syringe tainted
complex or sleeping
where the roof
caved in and
drip,
drip,
dripped next to
my head;
I've known it too.
Cut me out, it's my fault,
my feet hit the pavement
like a cliche. Everything's a cliche.
Complex sleeping.
Everything is elusive and dark,
and slippery and larger than
life. Some nights I almost cry.

This is why the teacher punishes you
for reading too far ahead.
I've worked hard to swim out here
and I just feel hurt and alone;
drifting out at sea.
Being a radical means always
having to be the hysteric or the sensitive.
Apologizing even when
you know you're right.
Being irrational,
when rationalization means
accepting the dominant ideology.
Always having to be wrong,
because of some "crack in your armor"
or some blemish on your record.
Being the biggest ******* in the room,
not even because you want to,
but because you have to.
Alienating everyone.
Capitalize on who you are,
and you can smother everyone eventually!
Your profit is such that you
can push everything away!
Sleep easy knowing you were right.
Sleep easy.

I feel your shame in me as a dance;
navigating with words to meander past tables hosting hungry bodies, silently. Your vocabulary crops me out of pictures. Your language erases me from the past as it is happening. You speak through me as I stand in front of you.

"Are you ashamed of me?", I'd ask, weeks later when
we haven't talked still.
We haven't talked more.
We haven't talked anymore.

[I'm in a bad way thinking about
pretty girls
&
red lips that say "good bye",
if they say anything at all.]

So some nights we lay on our sides,
and other nights we lay on our backs,
and all the other nights we sleep anxiously.
****.
No, I sleep anxiously

Take the fight out of a big cat,
proves nothing.
Yeah, there's something they'll
want to laugh about in circles.
There's something you can't
struggle to see the sunny side of,
because someone licked their
fingertips and
put it out.
Don't let them get you down.
Don't let them take the fight
out of you.
This is the second round, *******,
are you going to be
Mike Tyson or Glass Joe?

They expected some thousand people,
and about thirty showed up.
They put my grandmother's poetry
on tables for people to read.
They didn't.
It rhymed.
She wanted people to dance,
and instead they wept.
Complained about the food.
Some ******* made a pompous, "When I die..."
statement and I was left thinking [and half hoping],
"That can't come soon enough".
People talked about my grandfather more
than they even mentioned her.
Death is pretty ******* mediocre.