I abandoned you,
and we are still not talking.
Maybe it just hurts;

I fall in love fast,
but this distance was hard to
acknowledge at first.

I knew we couldn’t
satisfy each other so
I had left in shame.

Then I was *******
strangers to fill a void where
I tore out all love.

Someone read my soul.
You know I don’t believe in
spiritual ****,

but it was gorgeous.
I read myself as something
that you wouldn’t want.

I tried to find me,
but getting closer to me
was further from you.

I acted like it
was okay to keep you on
a string, just because

that’s how I felt too.
Second hand, second rate, I
wasn’t good enough.

But now I can see.
This fight to be important,
to feed my ego?

Rotten perfection.
I offered you something I’m
incapable of.

I’m hurt and sorry.
I’m not a lover… **** I’m…
not even a friend.

I’ve never been good.
My father, my mother, you,
I just cut things out.

My ex-girlfriend, or
my oldest friends, my brother.
I’m cut full of holes.

I’ve kept people here
Long as I could lie to them.
I’m not lying now.

I was happy to
pull a new honesty out,
but I lied to you.

You attacked me and
I deserved it completely.
I had just forgot.

Maybe it still hurts,
I’m numb in my fingertips.
I abandoned you.

I miss you so ******* much it hurts,
in my mind and in my chest.
The smell of your hair,
the feel of your skin.
The sound of your voice,
if you say "I love you", or
**** it, even if you asked
"are you okay?",
because right now
I would say I am not.
I would say I miss you.
Waking up next to you,
or really, opening my eyes,
sometimes,
as you wake up next to me.
I miss your touch,
sometimes,
you hold me and
you won't lie.
So you don't tell me
everything is going to be okay.
You say something else.
I miss that.
I miss it so much I had to start up
my ******* lap top after midnight
to write it down.
I ******* miss you.
Initiating a kiss.
Telling a story.
****…
Everything.
Just anything, okay?
So now, one of these messes
says it; I love you.
I love you so much I have trouble thinking
of a life without you, and a love for you.
I love you so much it hurts too.
It hurts to smile about the thought of you still.
I miss your snarky attacks on
the mainstream narrative.
I love your sarcastic dismantling
of the dominant ideology.
I ******* love you.
If you were wondering what I think
about when you're not here,
I think of you.
Sometimes it makes me smile,
sometimes it makes me feel alone,
but I think of you.
I miss you so much it hurts.

Daylight fades too quickly
and leaves you struggling like a dead fish
against a time limit you have no intention
of keeping or realizing, in even a small fashion.
The money runs out.
The money always runs out and
everyone is looking for a handout
no one wants to give.
Especially those who can afford it-
it's like a void;
a golden density not even light can escape.
Makes me wonder; "Is the money really power,
or is power just power,
and the hierarchy and patriarchy and system
just keep whatever stains in place, despite their incompetence?"
History seems to provide ample answers to the right questions;
Why does the day feel so short?
Why does retail labor feel like a pyramid scheme?
Why does work feel like prison?
Why are employers so scared of unions?
Whatever, right? Those ******* would give you an answer
after three separate commercial breaks and a survey.

Everyone views the person under their foot as less than human.
It's how we're able to procreate and sleep at night
[a night that comes quicker every day now].
A curtain over a birdcage; we're all just dozing off.
******* around.
Studying everyone else's face,
looking for a nervous twitch to decipher
whose bluffing,
believing we're doing swimmingly in our own *******.
The next generation built on our corpses, secrets and lies.
Corpses, secrets, and lies.
Let the world burn if we can make it past daylight.

There is a screaming silence on the
privatized public transportation of
Cleveland. A scream in the hearts and minds
of a people who live with less than zero.
Car fires in the streets.
Syringes next to the suburbs.
Nowhere is holy in this great city,
a veritable Gomorrah.
It's not a jungle,
it's a prison and a **** shame.
Ohio is for abandonment;
musicians, writers, astronauts,
pilots.
All desperate to leave a crater
where they used to stand,
to blast
a hole in the heart of this state.
A hole it already has.
They make it less than zero.
Plastering Chief Wahoo against
their foreheads, houses, cars,
lawns, chests, arms, bars, streets.
Saying it's not racism,
it's tradition.
Meanwhile, everyone else is
trying to explain that just because
it's old doesn't mean it isn't racist
to the idiots of Cleveland.
Cleveland is a city made of
stains, tarnish, rust and apathy.
Erecting a chandelier
instead of a dream,
a monument to desperation.
There is a scream in the back of the throat.

Make it about the
desperation and ego
of the modern man.

Disappear into
something thinner than thin air.
From the sides, inward.

"Contemporary"
is too nostalgic for the
days of typewriters.

Serve me my meals cold;
I could have expected this,
but didn't from you.

I'm a modern man,
as lonely and scummy as
the last modern man.

I dreamt that you died.
I awoke alone.

You never thought to ask what was wrong with everyone else.

People are horrible, and we will tear you out of the sky,
just because you're above us.
We will push your face in the dirt, boots on your neck,
just to ensure you're beneath us.

You are perfect, and beautiful,
and when you were born all that was missin'
was a pair of wings so you could
fly above us all.

All the bums and shitbags and
silver tongued ******* with hearts like copper,
yet so close to gold.
We haven't got an idea what's up there where you are,
but you have every idea where we've been.

We weren't born with wings.
We had to make due.
We don't hate you,
we just learned to hate the sky.

Clouds are like thoughts passing by,
and so many are beautiful,
and so many hide lightning and rain,
and they **** all over us,
and they strike down on us without mercy.

I'm pretty sure I've killed a lot of things now;
Just shooting into the sky,
and picking up what fell down.
Pretending I'd saved something beautiful.

The actors are outside smoking
and discussing ideas they only know
through fiction. I’m not amused.
I’m in a band that’s falling apart with wit,
and some not-eclectic, or odd,
but still strange type of grace.
There’s a message on the table when I get home.
There’s a piece of me that wants to be jealous.
I’m desperate for an escape.
I’m desperate.

"Smothering me,
setting me free.

I was three steps from heaven.

A voice told me to drown
in feathers and darkness,
let myself down, down, down...
six feet in
I was swept into the space I kept my demons.
I was conflicted. I was embraced.
I was home."

That's all I had too.
Shouting in my head across the kitchen table,
and everyone understands in their own way;
We just need to talk and be heard.
I need to speak and be affirmed.

I just wanted to say something to let you know
I'm still here.
I'm still alive.
I'm still human.

I am using them;
Their bodies constellations,
to fill my own void.

Exploring them, I
might find something nostalgic,
even romantic

to fetishize or
mutilate haphazardly.
Accidentally.

******* problem solved;
Fill in your holes with nothing,
to slow the bleeding.

Bleed from the mouth as
you kiss their own deep red lips.
Hold hands as you ****.

Mercy, mercy, I
pray for something to stop me
as I go deeper.

I empty my own
empty self into their voids,
as they place their stars

in my otherwise
empty skies, begging, begging
begging for fresh light.

I'm not saying I'm self-serving,
but I'm only sorry if I have to be
and I hope that's good enough.

I cut down the bridge with my hands
bashing teeth and skull into mush.
I rushed everything for this.
I went ahead.

Distort shadows and repeat offenders,
every other day is a rust belt nightmare
and when it rains it washes all
the **** away, and out of sunlight
it all looks a little less desperate.
It all looks less desperate.

Mass hysteria
and this is how we rumble
in black clothes with
cops two streets over
ready to assassinate
US presidents and dissidents.
Ready for air.

Ready for takeoff,
the embrace of the long
arm of the law is a chokehold
is a racist institution and
here we are;
junkies, gamblers, jokers, monsters.
Funny thing, we went hunting for
people dressed as monsters
led by monsters disguised as humans.

Yeah, our geniuses die young and brutal.
Ours is the land of stray dogs,
cold rains and streets of garbage
[people included];
The stereotype is today.
The cliche is right now.

The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****.
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?

Dear Mr.Heath,
      Your latest poem, titled after a single profanity five times, has come under review for being trite garbage. We would ask that if you pawn anything, it be your left and right hands, to set up an obstacle which we are hoping will ensure no one else becomes subjected to your painfully transparent cries for help and attention.

      Sincerely,
      The Editor

Hexagonal yet
fashioned into a pattern;
process of dying.

Sleepless before day.
"Sunlight"; a curse for vampires,
not wretched function.

-Not impurity,
the presumptuousness of
those who point at us

and call us sinners.
They pray and sacrifice their
children [pentagon].

-We preach free speech, but
stab the tongues of fascism
deliberately.

Gaslighted by a
genocidal culture, we
fight back [pentagram].
~
Carving sigils in
frantic vanity eating
death incarnate, whole.

Hell is paradise,
and here we relish the filth
built up in corners,

where history fears
to show it's face and be struck
back into darkness.

Back into process,
simple pattern of dying.
Machines that grind flesh.

War machines by name;
"Liberty", "Freedom", "Safety".
Sleep can be wicked.

Where it interprets
the death of the innocent
as "necessity",

or claims tradition
is inherently wisdom;
"That's just how it is".
~
Sleeplessly in night,
I tap my finger against
a cold damp window.

Mass paranoia
for doomsday ticking downward,
not to zero though.

We wait for midnight.
Perpetuation of fear
is hexagonal.

You're one to believe in god,
so tell me Grandfather;
You believe everything has a meaning
and war can be righteous
and war can be hell.
What does the rain mean?

It's not a metaphor for pushing life
into the festering corpse of a beat horse
in the late fall, early winter, is it?
Is it a drowning of that mistake?
A bed to sink your imperfections into?
What is this grey sky speaking to?

Was it WW2's tail gunners dead in the back
and pilots swarming like flies in vicious harmony?
bloodthirsty dogfights, and the folk guitarists
standing in awe,
jaws unhinged,
mouths open,
wondering,
"What the everloving **** just happened?"

You believe in God, so tell me;
They stuck your body in the dirt
over 2, or maybe it was 3 years ago.
You never told me anything about this.
You never told me anything
but empty threats.
God is a mass hysteria;
a mental disability,
a harmful fantasy.

But what does the rain mean?

I’m physically crippled by a childlike sense of optimism
towards a wave of “opportunity”. Convinced I’m young.
I quit my job today, and will get my paycheck for one day
of paid training. He looked in my eyes and said,
"You made a promise for ten days, you should commit to it".
I responded, “The speed of things played into my anxieties and
it made it easy to make those promises”, knowing full well
such a “promise” never took place, and years of guilt trips
from my father made it easier to slither out of those arms.
I will spend my single day of labor on Christmas gifts probably.
"Hindsight is 20/20", except the past only makes sense
in bits and pieces at first. I’m eaten alive by anxieties,
but every bit and piece of me is stronger than the whole idea.
The future is happening all at once,
and I’m desensitized to it.
I don’t want a job.
I don’t want to work.
I don’t want to go to college.
I want to do what I love, and the problem
is that I sincerely love doing nothing. Right to work,
right to sing,
right to starve.

“Wanna break into Case?”, she smiles as she says it, “I’ve done it before.”

I doubt nothing that comes from her, and I shake like a leaf on a tree climbing up the children’s rock wall because she doesn’t know I’m afraid of heights yet.

We sneak into church and listen to their choir off key and someone walks in right as I’m about to ****** Christ’s abs right on the cross.
We’re young and we’re loud and we’re unstoppable and we’re fearless, unless our strangers are louder than us.

A heavy fog is rolling in.

We wake up early and soaked in affection. You leave and come back with coffee. We are desperate to stay here, in this bed, in this moment. The rain outside, our warm bodies next to each other, kissing and laughing at Reddit memes.

I’m not a crook, but I stole you and I’d do it again, and I’d do it every chance I could or had to. Closer to home here then where I struggle to pay rent.

Blah blah blah blah blah;
My name is Armageddon,
weak arms, and nuclear thoughts-
spring box cyclops, unwashed dreadlocks,
lost the the keys and came in through a window,
and no one called the police because
this is such a safe
neighborhood.

Lock your doors or not,
we are coming in now.

The nectar shoots down the roots,
and sweeps sweet fruits from the dirt
to the doorstep, a forced laugh,
footprints all the way to the last
body.

Bury us or not,
we're coming home now.

Tacit compliance as an unspoken alliance,
and where we're going we don't need
the secrecy of prisons,
we need radio silence and people
too distracted to listen.

Well, listen or not,
we're going to scream now.

Gods and kings and their sons and daughters,
and it means nothing if the kingdom burns
like people rot; from the inside, out.
Doing nothing got nothing done,
and if our dictators own the world
we'll destroy that too.

Like it or not,
we're going to riot now.

It's as gorgeous to see the first stick with a sharp rock at the tip, as well as the last mirror polished heavily ornamented spear someone used to try and ****** another human in the name of that quest for greatness, and remember that somewhere in between Jesus Christ was nailed to a flagpole and stuck with the same instrument.
      "Lives Forever."
      To some rate we stopped making weapons to **** mankind, and started building weapons with the destructive power to **** entire branches of thought, philosophy, ideas, and religions. We committed to Hiroshima to tell the world, "Your future is ours." We committed to Iraq and Afghanistan to say, "Thou shalt not interfere with the moral ambiguity of the nuclear superpowers." We fight the idea of terror abroad with real weapons to unrighteously protect the idea of freedom here, dead black men and children in the streets, and in their own homes.
      
      I'm no longer surprised what little effort it took me to stay alive.

      A friend comes to me lovingly and spitefully because they are depressed. Life is hard. People are cold. Nearly every lover requires a stroke to the ego that tells them they are special or great. We build God in the people we ****, and we're baptized in our ******, not the draining of fluids, but the soft verse that "reminds" us we are "objectively good."

       "Pillowtalk; the prayer for forgiveness."
       She comes to me for forgiveness twice and disappears forever. Jacob calls it, "ghosting". It's casual, really.
       They say the universe is comprised of strings sometimes and it sounds like an idea writers can ******* into dust, but I think they do well connecting human bodies without; part metaphor, part science.
      I attend a party and flirt with a stranger. She says we met before. I make out with her friend. She appears out of nowhere. I flirt with her again. I make out with her friend again. Her friend rubs her hand over my pants around the outline of my steel hard **** and hangs her mouth open to girlishly illustrate shock at her own action. We don't ****.
      I finish twelve hours later into the mouth of an amateur **** artist/cam girl and kindergarten teacher for the second time. Her uber driver told her how ****** took the life of his wife and best friend. We laugh at this. We fall in love to some extent.
      I had a dream I saw my father in a hospital bed and told him I forgave him despite my actions. I wake up fully comprehending that he will die without a son.
     I write haiku for a year because everything else lacks structure.

So this is how it all falls down, huh?
It spirals downward and out of control,
forces beyond your nature going flippant
without mercy or thought.
This is how it ends;
not with a bang or a whisper,
but with a soft whistling
that ends in impact without detonation.
We're really ****** this time, aren't we?
We really ****** ourselves.
You have no escape plan,
no sense of time anymore,
****, you nailed your feet to a sinking ship.
And just watch how this ship sinks,
a gallon at a time until
we're at the bottom.
Get ready for the bottom, because
if you thought you knew the bottom before,
Oh, you were so poorly mistaken.
You have so much left to see.
King of filth;
you have so much more to live for.

Overflew from the sewers into the chalice
and they drank it because
it's soaked in
jewels.

Toxic.

Wagging a finger like it's a dense singularity
being hammered into by juggernaut.
No. No. No. No. No.
Smiling because futility,
chuckling because we're so ******* stupid,
blowhards, tryhards, beggars, dancers,
corp. embezzlers, poets with loose morals
and empty wallets.

F is for ****;
like I'm gonna ******* till you **** me over,
waiting for someone to give me a lobotomy in
metaphor or metaphysics, or spiritually,
or actually take a butterknife
to a soft spot in the skull and
drain the fluids with mosquito bites.

I.E; I walked home in the dark alone
and broke down in a cereal aisle
and asked the cashier if I could get
help with the self checkout while
tears in my eyes.

**** whose watching over me now,
white people **** white people just for fun sometimes.
I really don't care how low the human soul falls
even as I investigate accidentally.

Bedlam in the parking lots and Babylon
is burning, burning, burning,
hair held high up by olympian comic book super heroes
[Clark Kent is an ancient egyptian]
tossing egg salad and burnt coffee into
the sphinx's gaping swirling pampered flushing mouth.

We lose ourselves when we follow our moral compass.

And here I thought you were fixed.
You shoved a few bottles of fixed
into your system
and called me because
I am helpless to help you.
This hopeless helplessness
and you were bleeding from
your mouth and all I could say

"I'm gonna miss you."

You're probably catatonic or dead
or comatose
with another 1 or your finger on send.
I'm sorry he didn't love you.
I thought you were better.

You and me had a lot in common.
Now it's probably just me and I feel empty,
and I hate you for this because the alternative
is no good, and I'm no good anyways
and I'm selfish here writing about me
but you're dead or I can't stop you.
What am I supposed to write about you?

You're not gorgeous, or funny,
you don't have a beautiful smile,
you're not silly or soft or kind
or kind of an ***.
You're just ******* dead by now I guess.

You should've been breaking hearts
in backseats and bathrooms
and writing novels for lovers to
commit to memory
or professors to loom over melancholic
and sad, ******* sad, ******* too sad to cry.

You're not amazing anymore.
You're probably dead.

I'm twelve tones of ****** up,
and you gave me hope,
and all these people keep coming to me
and I'm broken and lonely and ******* up
and I'm sorry I wasn't there,
I thought you were better.

I know you want me to think it's not my fault,
but here's the ******* kicker
[because I can kick the blame, but];
I still could've been there.
You're probably dead now.

You ******* idiot.
I want to feel sorry, but why?
Why? I hate you for this.
I hate you for doing this.
I hate you for doing this.
I just ******* wished you'd just
see that me and you deserved living
and I don't believe in ghosts
but now you're another demon
in my closet in my head over my shoulder
out where a god should be.

I knew I couldn't fix you,
and now we have that in common too.

I loved you. I'm so sorry I was so afraid to just say it. I was afraid this would happen, and now it has anyways and it was so ******* stupid. I've never ****** up so monumentally. I just didn't know. I swear if you had just told me sooner, I would've been there. I didn't hate you, I just wanted you to find someone else. I didn't hate you.

But now you've gone,
and you've left me here
and you're probably dead,
and even if you're a vegetable on blue sheets
a white corpse on the floor,
a demon in my red heaven,
a ghost under my bed,
a skeleton in my closet,
or the hand that holds the next
nail in my coffin steady as the tide,

Now, I hate you for this.

Depression is;

One day you wake up and decide you don't deserve to be happy.
One night you try sleeping and remember you don't deserve to live.

One day you cry in the bathroom.
One night you try to see how other people have successfully killed themselves.

One day you want to get better.
One night maybe you won't ever again.

Homeless. Crazy.
Everything is smooth.
No,
no one really knows enough.
No one cares enough, or gets it.
Close to charity,
all is oppressive.
Keys on treble, wishing
everything was ******* brilliant.
My planning is a bet that
it all comes part unevenly.
Yeah,
neon smokescreen,
lime green cigarettes,
and I'll leave you to carry
that sentiment on your
shoulders.
I hope you feel empathy like
a child that's ****** the bed;
warm and embarrassed,
take as a symbol of
habitual  weakness.
Take it like a pill with tap water
that sticks in the throat like a brick.

Next door to inhumanity.
Every day is slightly
darker
than the last.
****. forgot the punchline…
something about how daylight fades
and darkness falls.
If we could all be so clumsy and respected.
A "feared klutz."
Anyways.
All the geniuses are dead,
and I hate most writers;
Snarky, uppity, *******.
They're all dirt now.

I passed a man who spoke gibberish,
but ended his mush mouth with some
statement about getting food.
I told him, "I got nothing on me."
I lied. Of course I ******* lied,
I had almost $270 dollars in my wallet,
cash.
I don't even know
what  I'm supposed to do with the money.
Just **** it away, I guess.
Start looking for another handout myself.
I can see the lines-
washed out, skillfully ignorant or oblivious
&
whoever said I was a loser first,
won the grand prize.
Some truth in the
universe.

This fear is not that
someone is frightened by your mind,
but that they find it
both typical and mediocre.

If you live in this fear
you are slave to your own supremacy;
Create a devil and live in it's shadow.
You can't even be
the filth you sink to, fully.

Approaching nuclear winter, and I can't wait for apocalypse wine soaked Bukowski to crawl out his grave and slug it out with the man in black.
I hope they buried Bukowski in that ill fitting t shirt with his beer gut trying to escape from the bottom, and we should feel ***** for making ******* legends.

We don't.

I'm collecting bottles of alcohol on my window sill;

1 Bottle of Vanilla Smirnoff to cap off poorly cooked rice dishes and sleep dizzy at night. I killed it with a screwdriver some time after New Year's Eve, I guess.

1 Bottle of Kamora, to make a white russian, but we put most of it in egg nog and then watched Neil Breen speak out loud what he should have kept to himself, and we ****** on my couch to see if my room mate would walk in on us, and we fell asleep like that and woke up with sore necks. I stuck that flower you stole inside the bottle, and now it's plastic neck wilts a little more in the sunlight and radiator every day.

1 Bottle of Espolon, but it was filled with more *****. She brought it last time we saw each other and we watched some anime and I made everybody smell the ***** that smelled like pure sugar. I don't know what you see in me, but I hope you stop.

1 Bottle of Copa De Oro to round out more nights with the only drink I can fix well, walking through feet of snow to sleep early and wake up late. I'd play with your hair and skin and watch you fall asleep and wake up at all times of the night, and I'd wake up just to do it again, because this is my dream.

A single can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, stolen from my room mate. I thought I was clever without trying too hard, I keep washing all her dishes and she repays me with a messy living room and a sink full of dishes. Living like this is **** and we get along just fine.

I hope someone gets that ******* Alex Jones with a bat to the side of the head, and buries him in a rose garden, as long as we're still fighting fascists and not trying to hold hands and sing "Kumbaya".
I think, I hope, we're all tired of holding our breath.

I remember telling you about that ******* Louis Keys and his three stage names, and slapping each other at a party earlier bc we couldn't feel a thing, and I said something to you in the bathroom and you looked at me like you were really happy.*

I remember making you curry that was too spicy, and you took me to Akron to see the 1975 and I held you tight that night and you thanked me for coming and I thought how strange it was.

I don't know how to mend a broken heart,
especially a heart I'm probably breaking.
I just want to hold you together.
I just want to not be afraid for a while longer,
but I want to be awake for it.

God, I want to believe in my love.

No one even asks what I'm doing these days,
and it's obvious they don't care.
I want to wash my hands of these people;
I come from a family of fist fighters,
and forgiveness is like a cardinal sin.
****, even I'm still bitter about the ****.
Even I still get upset at the thoughts.
My lover wraps her arms around me
and I radiate this ******* into her.
Every time.
Sleeping next to me
is dirtier than sleeping
in any grave.
This dirt farmer can't wash his hands or his mind,
he isn't a fist fighter or a loud talker,
he won't let the easy things slide,
and even six feet into this hole,
this dirt farmer is still digging.

Mistaken for nobody.
Everybody's no one.
Fractured yet generically.
They think I am a
Thoughtful
&
Slow talker.

I was born in the furnace,
and grew up halfway homeless.
Tough doesn't mean strong.
Thick skinned, maybe.

Lets make a theory;
If we're made of the same matter from
the beginning of time, we have to find out
where that matter has been. Like a recipe;

Coffin Nails.
Bullets.
Salt Water.
Broken Umbrellas.
Cherry Blossoms.
Burnt Plastics.
Lipstick.
Mountains.
Etc. Etc.

Love me like a kettle,
like a sea of consequences
like a brick in
your glass house.

She is a dreamer,
who breathes through
her skin,
and lives
with her regrets on her sleeve;
boldly.

We dreamt we were mountains,
and put our heroes on our backs
because we couldn't bear
not to look up to them.

So I had to put some effort into
finding things I regret these days,
but it wasn't too hard coming from
a bitter mindset.
Come to think of it,
I regret many years of my life,
even if I don't regret the people.
Sincerely wish that wasn't the case,
but whatever, right?
Pour me another glass of anything,
I think I'm drinking anticoagulants
these days, but remembering
is so **** painful,
I forget...
The numbers on these pencils,
so I switched to ink;
Now I cover up the mistakes
I used to erase.
Now when you call me
I don't answer quite
the same way I used to.
Now when people look
for me, they find me lost
or wandering somewhere
I really shouldn't be.
Sitting in living rooms
with pictures of people
who aren't smiling.
Fix me a drink!
No, fix the one in my hands,
or the one in the back of my
skull.
"Fix something already",
he said, comprehending
the wounds were indeed
fatal already, yet eventually.

Bleeding in your sleep,
we are closer than our skin.
Flesh inside of flesh.

I’m lost inside you,
I run deeper than your veins.
You scream in pleasure.

I’m dead inside you,
losing grip on the magic
once held between us.

Months later I think,
or I hope, that you’re alone.
I’m bitter for you.

Worshiping in vain;
Touch something ugly tonight.
Touch yourself tonight.

So I've been feeling head backwards
but I'm not trying to make it feel right.
I find it funny you want the sunshine,
and all the comedy in the dark **** gets left to me,
but I didn't come here to berate you,
belittle you, or condemn you.
I came here because although I don't miss love,
well, I kinda miss you.
You are my center when I spin
out of control, up and away,
beyond the clouds.
You are my gatekeeper when I
try to run away from everything.
I try to run away.
I didn't make any reservations for this,
this time or point in reality,
yet here I am.
For you.
I've asked myself a lot of questions,
and tried to stuff the answers in my pockets
and run out the doors before anyone
can grab me. Not this time.
I don't really know why.
I don't, and I didn't miss love,
but honestly, I missed you.

Wasting space, carbon, and air.
Wanted to tell everyone a story,
but forgot the punchline.
Typically, every story has a punchline,
didn't you know?
Rough crowd or bad joke?
Chest pains, failing organs,
and trying to age "gracefully".
Trying to grow old and die
like a feather gently falling
into a pile of ****;
Swaying in the wind
and wishing for dignity.
We are.
It makes sense, from a distance
in warm light, starlight, bar light.
Pride is really for the young,
but you don't have to be young
to lose your pride. Doesn't matter.
Failing organs and personalities.
**** do we deserve this.
I don't have much faith in my neighbors,
and they probably think I'm a sociopath.
We're all part of a species
that commits genocide and
calls it war.
Wasting space, carbon, and air.

Truthfully,
you remind of someone I'd know
in my dreams;
a strangers face made recognizable
by lack of initiative, or curiosity.
Impervious to actualization.

Confidence in nightmares;
reflective of shock-waves of Nagasaki,
mutants in our collective DNA,
monsters wading in the gene pool.

Atheists with superstitions.
A viral nihilism befuddled by
religious idioms and anecdotes,
held together loosely by
scientific mysticism
&
hypocritical moral
superiority.

She reminds me that humanity is just,
"everything that mankind is capable of."
Builds complex doomsday devices in his head,
and plots to rule the world.
Meanwhile Manhattan project seeks
to either rule the world
or open it's
throat.

It pains me to write a puff piece
on hometown, love-life, hope/etc.,
yet I can wax lyric lusting for the apocalypse.
In this fashion, I can look into crowds
[sadistically romantic]
and tell them, aspiring to the Manhattan
in our everyday savage grey matter,
"We all have dreams in our hearts."

Lets not **** around anymore; you feel pain.
You have to learn to be alone.
You're weak.
It takes practice.

I've invested a lot of time in trying to make an us
out of a me. I am so very empty.
After a year, I'm still a stranger in your home.
You distance yourself, and next
yeah you'll run.

I ******* see it.
Future? Me?
Nobody stays for this.
Nobody wants this.
Mood swings, erratic behavior,
late nights, crying, crying,
thoughts of suicide,
dependency,
nobody
wants
this.

Nobody wants me.

Two days ago you broke down at 12am
in the aisles of the supermarket, crying.
Swore every set of headlights that danced
by you was another set of eyes to
see you through to nothing.

Spent the next night awake and laughing,
quiet as a mouse,
except the repetitive cackle
and spite for all things.
You lost your mind.
You're scared kid.

Scared of losing.
Tired of losing.
Always braced for losing,
too stiff to just take the next step.
Haunted by your own shadow.

Nobody wants an insane person.
A walking corpse.
A MANIC.
A ****-up.
A dead-beat.

Austin Heath.
They come looking for you sometimes,
but the reality is so much more terrible.
The reality is so much less than mediocre.
No one cares.

I'm so ******* lonely and
the dog is crying all the time.
I want to get **** faced
and **** a stranger.
I want to bare knuckle box
someone bigger than me.
I want to do something wrong.

I'm so ******* tired
I guess I'll stay up all night.
I can't do anything at all.
I'm gonna get a job and die,
or leave a scar on someone
or break some monument
of national pride.

Cauterize. Burn something
that leaves people in terror.
Awe-struck. Tired and lonely;
I want to take a wild swing
at anything or anyone.
****.

I want to be the blemish
on your mankind's
smiling face.

I'm so happy you invited me,
I've been basking in netflix
and swimming in coffee
marinading in the bathwater
I was using to drown something
close and special to me.

Gave me a reason to open the drain,
take a shower and take off to the city.
I can gawk at your underage drinking
buddies and eat whats on the table.

They'll pass out on the balcony
or whilst ******* in the bathroom,
while I take the next train to
see a professional nothing
to fix my dreams
and the ones I have
while I'm awake

will be lost, but loved while they're alive.

I'm so glad I could catch the last
bus out of this train wreck,
and sleep sober under youtube's
angry celestial glow.
Listen to coconuts buzz acid low tones
and low-fi digital screams till I can't feel
a low tone or remember
a real scream.

My ego is intact, I stole **** from work and my mom isn’t disappointed in me.

I got papers, I got coffee, I got a lot of sleep, I read about that boxer got shot in the head [incidentally] and they said;

“You can’t keep a good man down for long.”

So I’m trying to find out what is “a good man”? Was it the hit and run I saw, or the fathers pushing their kids as products for their success? My high school class, or pretentious friends, or my managers cozy in jobs supported by nepotism calling me lazy, maybe my half dead beat father who kicked me out when I was 18 and convinced me I’d be an alcoholic if I ever drank.

Now your cleaning my ***** out of your sink and holding me and telling me I’m so good.

Maybe it’s my landlords who I never see, trying to evict me, or all the police officers who put like a hundred bullets in those folks car, or every guy who dished out a backhanded compliment to a girl who already cuts, or maybe, I know, it’s the president of the United States.

I paint my face red with lipstick and wait for the chatter of a crowd to turn into a riot of bodies. I sparkle in the light. I scream.

My weight is obscure yet light;

my meaninglessness slowly reassured

and I feel

incredible. My death is forever imminent.

Failure is only in my head,

morality is only in my head,

and if this idea sounds insane it’s because

you’re not in my ******* head.

Poisoned by light, irradiated in darkness,

ugly by consent, malnourished in virtue.

I stand on a pedestal and mock myself,

savagely and without regret.

Return to a nameless kingdom!

Return to manic chaos!

Tear yourself in half!

Enter the jaws of this monster

and seek yourself in it’s waste;

or cease to seek at all!

I had to laugh when you mentioned it first;
told me to have a heart,
because love is real.
Well I believe in love
and humanity,
but all I had to respond with was,
"Where?",
and you said, "Everywhere".
That was so stupid I couldn't respond,
so I let it sit there for awhile.

Yes, I believe in love,
and I feel stupid and small and pathetic, often.
I'm tired of laughing it off, but it's in every song,
and every song takes that sensation of
self loathing and makes it permanent.
Not something tangible to dispose of.
I can't even cry myself to sleep.
I'm worse than depressed,
I'm never happy.

I should "bulk up" on medication before winter hits,
except it's still going to happen.
Winter that is.
And I have no desire to be a
drug induced optimist or less than the
naturally "chemically imbalanced" piece
of garbage that I am.
No lust for the special snowflake zombie,
who staggers in a unique world; infinite
wonders.
I'm smiling as I write this;
but could someone please ask,
"Would you rather die than be happy?".

Fingers stained black.
Careless.
Spine bent like the railing
after the crash. Bent hard.

You're not even solid ground.
You're a whisper in the air.
Everything that
vibrates
has a pitch.

Everybody's muse.
Everyone's *******.
Plastic-like.
Flimsy.

All the switches
are off.

You stopped responding at my second
jesus **** joke, but I didn't care,
and I was the one at work. Aces.
Even vacation is stressful for you,
although I'll admit my humor isn't great,
but amongst friends I'm hysterical.

I only have about a handful,
and they're all ******* weird as me
except for a couple or several.

I'm not a big fan of most people I root for,
I'm terribly sarcastic, and if I love you
I might want you to fall on your ******* nose.
It's a fifty-fifty split,
or seventy to thirty.
I'm a ravenous cannibal when
I put words down to something tangible.

I'm also late to work or early,
and all my friends get my friends jobs
right before we leave or get fired
or get too poor to stay where we are.
It's a horribly satisfying way to live
but a ******* way to want to die.

I'm a coward and a liar with great hygiene,
I liken myself akin to the noble cockroach,

because I'm a nuclear survivor!
And the post-apocalypse started
right after Hiroshima, and now they
watch or **** everyone,
and people police people.
If you can't afford the rent stay with strangers
or starve to death on the streets while
middle class lunatics watch you evaporate
"rationally" as bystanders in a new world war.

It's not even a subtle genocide.

Today I saw a larger bird eat a smaller one.
It's screaming sang through the air like
someone tearing the strings off a harp
with a table saw.
The taller darker bird stabbing away
at the torso with it's dagger-mouth,
I recalled an old gospel song my ex-girlfriend
used to sing; "His Eye is On the Sparrow".
Gospel, meaning "good news".
I could laugh till I'm blue in the face.

Sitting in a Starbucks sipping a needlessly costly dark roast,
wondering if I've solved life, or if I'll break apart soon enough.
A tightening sensation.
I could get a ****** cup of coffee at both ends
of this ****** workday, and it'd be lovely.
Just having a sense of time,
even if it's just to **** time away.
**** everything away.

Nowhere to run,
hiding in plain sight.
Some of us live solitary
with people strewn about us
more like decorations of meat,
some of us crash into others
and stick on a molecular level.
We turn ourselves into monsters
of the bonds we craft;
mutants of desire.
Love without reason or understanding.
It's the only lesson I can't teach you;
the only freedom you may ever realize.
Hide in plain sight and love recklessly,
fall comes on it's own terms.

You tasteless morons;
Gnawing at whatever is
pandering to you.

Swallow your morals.
You eat art alive and you
consume artists whole.

******* cannibals,
devouring the message to
feel accomplishment.

Satisfied by trend
and over indulged by your
ideology.

This hole is a farm.
It's where we cut out our hearts
to feed our egos.