Odors build up from a session of
sleep-work-sleep-work-sleep
[suicide in slow motion]
that seems to cycle
without hesitation
and soon

naturally.

Well fed big cat, poking at the
starved hysteric hyenas with
a 3 foot cattle ****. Laughing.
Avoid eyesight.
Contact.

The hand that feeds holds down your throat;
the invisible hand masturbates your false ego,
your sense of self is attained by
radioactive superpowers achieved
through the assault of arachnids,
or the bite of some exoskeletoned predator.

What gives you incurable illness provides you
with some naive interpretation of life as
"endless shining light of warmth and love."

Yeah, well tough **** for the dead,
and please, less noise from the dying.

I broke a lantern in a vivid hallucination
I had in my sleep. Inside was the scripture
of a fortune cookie from
"Golden Dragon" on lee road.
It read,

"Life is made worth living."

Here we are lined up like ******* ants on pavement,
and I've been alienated before, but
never so collectedly. So familiar.
Here we are making small talk and
suddenly I feel useless, or Caucasian, you know;
how you may be something, but certain times
you may inhale too deeply and
feel it. Maybe I felt it earlier...
That type of feeling where, albeit "familiarity",
if I could be in two places at once,
I still wouldn't be here.
Strangers on my welcome mat,
and I just can't close
the ******* door.
It's probably because I don't live here.
Chit-chat and I have nothing to say,
so I'd say anything just to see if you'd
put me on the outside, treat me
like a stranger, or pretend I really
belong here.
The Welcome Party!;
yet I can already tell I don't belong,
I'm unwelcome, I shouldn't be
here.

Alone on Sunday.
It means; "to procrastinate".
means, "time to reflect."

I  actually
expected you to do this,
and that feels ****** up.

I expected this,
and I should feel *******, but
it's just whatever.

~

Jay texted me, "hey"
and I  felt my whole body
sighing in relief

as I messaged them.
Things are to be okay.
Guess that's how it goes;

Can't predict these things,
but if you tried you'd be close.
I'm not clairvoyant,

but I know enough.
Enough to see where this ends.
Things stay as they've been.

Satanists are lobbying harder for women's rights
than christians, catholics, *******... everyone else.
Satanists.
Jesus H tap-dancing Christ...
might be a beautiful day after all.

This mountain is tallest when someone is on top.
Tucked an olive branch in a fire,
threw my heart in a file and
I don't feel bad at all.

I keep aspiring to **** myself,
and I can only tell a handful of people.
I can only tell people who don't care.
I can only hope nobody minds.
I can only wish and wish.
I'm so sick of violent people,
and violet eyes and knuckles.

I don't feel bad at all.
I am a final boss and a bad guy,
and a villain and an entrepreneur
in the science of self-exploitation
for nobody but nobody I like.
I'm sick of hearing white girls sing,
and yell, and talk in high voices.

I'm sick of chains and strings and people.
I'm sick of songs that say nothing.
I need revenge, but mercy so selfish,
so counter intuitive.
Must feel like common sense.

Spent a charity gig trying my hardest not
to say, "I'd rather die than be here."
I laugh brutally sincere at just the idea,
say **** it, *******, **** this
to someone reaching out for
empathy who deserves
none.
My humanity as devoid as humanity's humanity,
maybe people aren't so graceful and righteous
after all, and if "Honest Abe" lied his
hairy *** off for all those years,
and Ghandi was still a racist,
and Ohio has a monument
to genocide,
I can burn all these temples and churches
and not have it as sacrilegious as
any bible ******* conservative
wants their enemy to be.
I wouldn't stick a spear in Jesus,
but I wouldn't lending a hand.

Prince of stolen goods come to take over
the nation that spat in his face.
We are losing all our ground an marbles;
we are not going to be okay,
things will not be fine.

Mother is in a women's shelter,
losing weight and begging for money
weekly
from her deadbeat son
who is now broke.

King of hearts take away the sleeping sensation
oozing up from my toes to the center
of epicenter of thoughts that shake my body
like earthquakes of palsy or a stroke
made up of
every pond or puddle you pass up
couldn't hold all the tears I haven't cried.

Sister can you hear me now,
I'm not exactly trying anymore
I'm silent with syllables and
loud with my pauses.
I'm not going to make it,
and I can't turn around.
I'm fragile and delicate and
some would say I'm flat-out weak.

I want you to put flowers on my grave
instead of sleeping somewhere next
to me, six feet under, or sleeping in
wondering what went wrong.
This **** isn't your fault.

Put a sword or some sharp object
to **** away the idea that
I'm going to use to destroy whatever
is left of myself.
**** me, to **** me before I **** me.
Steal everything.
**** anything.

I missed the party but not really "missed"
as in I "believe" I would have fun at these things but
I just can't. My hand sways over a house of cards.
My fleeting potential is not realized.
Watching the rain fall from the kitchen sink
and imagining acoustic guitar strums from the 70's.
What a ******* gorgeous cliche.
My heart is sound, my hand waves over this house of cards;
every ******* mistake I can make to hold this in place
is a victory made holy made sainthood.
The veritable laundry list of mistakes I've made,
and the shopping list of **** I'm going to do.
I'd hope I'm appearing as if there is a masterstroke
to all this chaos, except, I'm not even a minor influence.
A gentle wind rolls by.

Your silhouette stains my memories;
the smell of alcohol and your breathe.

Your tacit acceptance doesn't illicit my
flaccid compliance, or silence.

I'm dying in front of you.
You weep.

Hold,
turn a blind eye
turn an old leaf and see
what grows beneath it.
Curiosity makes you ill,
makes your
stomach empty
when you're not
hungry

&

you can teach yourself to
hate who you are like the rest of us.
Sometimes we sparkle in the sunlight,
and other times we drown in
swamps we made from
crystal clear cynical nihilism
and the ashes of everyone before us.
We understand death,
and we cuddle with it like
a stuffed bear.

Swallow fear and
die in our sleep with
shoes fastened to our
feet.

If I turn back the hands on a clock

it changes nothing, lately.

Nothing really said to my face.

No good-byes at least.

What is the rest of this then?

Ticking, talking of ideas I don’t

comprehend or understand?

Ticking, walking down the same path

with more ferocity, less inherent guilt?

Ticking, shocking that all along

I was worse than the measure of

all these “sins” and confessions.

Ticking, locking myself inside and waiting

Armageddon or Apocalypse.

Like two hearts,
beating hands against
a flame
in the cold.
Singed with warmth,
screaming in joy,
warm outside.
Blue blood.
Exhaling vulgarities
through locked jaws
and a grin.

I’m drowning.
Choking on this ocean...
but when I find air,
I suffocate on that too.

Of course it makes sense, now,
but it disappears; passes between your fingers
like sand, like water, like salt, like blood.
Stains and makes religious connotations,
although I'm a non-believer
and so are you
and so are they;
The ephemeral heroes.
Absent or cloudy minded?

The impossible riddle.
We went searching for gods, devils, angels,etc.,
and instead found an embarrassing truth;
the blunder in centuries of slaughter.

Q: "When is a door not a door?"
A: "Usually you'll hear sirens.
An unusual amount of broken glass,
or a crater, or a statue of a maniac,
or a portal to someplace in time, space,
maybe it was late November,
when you took cash from a woman coughing blood,
12 hours ago the man walking down the street,
screaming, "**** MY MIND. I'M SO ******* STUPID.",
ghosts aren't real, but people are, and we treat them
like they are invisible don't we?
Treat them like windows."

It felt like my brain had been in a gyroscope;
my eyes were screaming and getting
****** by lasers, and my body was going
inside out.
I jumped out of bed, and into the bathroom
slamming one hand on the kitchen sink
and holding the door handle with the other,
then purging the food/poison. Four Times.
My head went from a concrete block to a balloon.
Thick chunks of hamburger meat
like a great serpent flowing from my
gut, outward.
I lied down on the floor for a second;
it was the first time I'd vomited since elementary.
Bukowski would have been proud;
I didn't miss the toilet. Of all the things I'm
bad at, and I still purge like a professional.
All the **** I can't do,
yet I didn't miss.

Weather your gold crown
Rotten down to copper, your
Hail of sustenance.

Despite your new crown
You’re light as a feather, you
Try to get better.

Halo represents
A mirage of purity,
Hemorrhage of love.

Bitter and toxic,
Alchemy of illusions.
You don’t try so hard.

Had a nightmare.
You invited me somewhere.
Left me behind.
I was screaming your name from the courtyard trying
to find you, and you didn't answer.
I destroyed some **** and finally ran into your room mate.
I asked her forcefully where you were,
then found you. You knew why I was ******.
Your friends said something,
so I smashed a glass pan against a wall
and asked them if I looked like I wanted to be ****** with.
I walked upstairs and a man put me in a grey straight jacket.
That feeling is still in me long after.
Nothing is resolved.

My life is tumultuous,
and I've never hurt myself so bad.
I seek a season for which I have committed this great,
great sin.

Without fear to guide me, I drift aimlessly.
Without skeletons in my closet,
I'd be alone.

To sin and sin again. I am not a good person.
I am not ready to be this good person
everyone tells me I am.
I suffer.
I bleed.
I cry.

My life is tumultuous.

If I was god I would hide in space,
tell everybody that I died,
tell them I never tried, skip the truth,
behind the curtain is another lie;

If I were god I would go back to day one,
Tell romeo not to drink the poison and juliet
you just met this kid, put away your knife,
I'd teach Shakespeare how to write a love story,
yeah, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, K.

If I were god I'd be a deadparent,
I'd leave the planet and never come back.
As a deity I am a hack, and a poor artist;
I've made creatures so heartless,
watching as these flames grow larger,
they pray to me like "father,
you said if a poem rhymes it makes you a sap."

Do as I say, not as I do, and never as I act;

If I were god I'd abandon my creation,
I've seen the richest nations turn men into rapists
leave women with discolored faces,
we're all swallowing words that are now wasted,
you wanna pray but you can't say ****, uh,
yeah, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, k.

Guys getting faded,
losing at Street Fighter 4.
I am among them.

I scream from passion,
and realize the sickness of
privilege congealed.

Less sleep, more caffeine.
Secondhand smoke and curse words,
trying to stay cool.

Keep it together,
breathe for just one second and
settle down tonight.

Irrelevant, but
today is just tomorrows
obscure reference.

They might be giants,
but you’re just one man, and it
slides right out of view.

It's useless.

Also, I am useless to describe
any situation where
I get out okay.
I want to take the blue line to
somewhere new and mysterious,
and try to fathom life
beyond,
"Giant Steps?"

No, that was John Coltrane.
"..."
That was John Cage,
and somewhere we roll in our graves
because the best references are lost
and the best ideas, spoiled,
and the greatest thing
about it is

who we've wasted it on.

The train screams and you twitch your fingers
consciously, yet still nervously,
you're thinking about the first time you attempted,
and it's vivid and terrifying,
like dreams of falling that last one second,
but strung together for about five minutes.
You breathe irregularly.
You think about how most people can't read your handwriting.
You write a masterpiece on the pillow,
right next to her head. Hope that she sleeps better than you,
with sweet thoughts she easily forgets,
and the bass of that train rocks the
boulder in your stomach.
You shift your feet, your legs, your body, close your eyes,
exhale,
and pretend you are completely still,
but subconsciously those fingers are twitching,
until the feeling is gone.

Nobody has time for me, I wanna cry so bad
but I'm afraid if anybody hears me  sobbing
I'll get harder on myself even though last night
I wanted to ******* but my body wanted to call it quits,
but my mind was so awake I didn't sleep for a single second.
Or maybe I did.
I keep thinking about how
I never know when I'll see you next.
It's like I tried so hard to just be ******* miserable,
I bought a notebook, but locked myself out,
so I yelled at it for twenty minutes or so;

"WHAT THE **** WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE?
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
This music thing was supposed to be my dream,
and Austin you're gonna go places, or get everything you want,
my mother says we'll make millions off of all my ****** songs,
as soon as I'm on the radio,
but who the **** listens to the radio?
People counted on me to be someone,
like I'm ******* somebody whose supposed to be somebody.
I've ******* ruined people for you.
I've done things I still can't live with,
and most of them started with a pen.
I'm supposed to love music, these songs were supposed to
take the sadness out of my head and make it tangible,
but instead it made them permanent.
So everyone else gets to be saved by music,
but I get to destroy myself with it.

My head gets so ******* loud at night.
Everything is in caps lock.
I stay up for days on end
until the feeling is gone.

We're all hacks,
but you especially.

Also, I ******* hate rhyming poems.

There is a scream in the back of my throat
for every human in the world to hear;
I'm sick of every system and every heartbeat
and I'm angry. Angry. Angry,
but too tired to throw something.
I'm angry that it feels like every human being
is on the other end of some joke and
I'm the god ****** punchline,
and you can call it paranoia or narcissism,
but I'm able to drink both and still
sit in the waste it makes, and see it makes no difference
what label I give any metaphor.
They all say the same thing.
They all say the same **** thing.

A woman on the
Street told me about how her
Boyfriends probably

******* a drag queen,
And they stole fifty dollars
From her. Wants advice.

"Remember you have
Yourself", I say; a rehearsed
Piece of half fiction.

She lights up something,
mysterious and inhales,
Then exhales and sighs.

Think for a second,
What would my mom say right now?
I try to start fire.

I can't tell you why
He holds your hand in public,
Ignores you at home

Helps his drag queen friend,
But leaves you in bed alone.
I don't know that much.

But these things tend to
Work themselves out in the end.
I have faith in that.

Not god, religion,
Choice, free will, karma, and such.
Just this natural

Push for balance and
The results I've seen so far.
I believe in this.

Some days I don't have
fantasies about suicide.

I don't have a war in my mind,
I got a pack of wolves begging
for the next fix,
and sometimes it's
a mess of aspirin
and sometimes it's
a bowl of cereal.

**** yeah,
ain't that mediocre sublime?
Can't you feel where it burns,
but stays the same... just...
Warmer?

So we continue our bastardization
of everything beautiful
and praise ourselves
for creating unnatural symmetry;
undynamic, sterile,
processed.

A running theme is that mankind,
we think we're special really.
Life is rare, but not phenomenal.
We are just as we are made;
unfortunate accidents
conceived in circumstance,
heat and pressure.

We are not miracles, we're mutants

formed out of the trash left unattended
by a thoughtless and lazy reality;
Reflecting nothing, like the waste we create.

I had a nightmare I was murdering
clones of political prisoners
with a ****** rifle from afar,
in some modest white trash
suburban house.
One got away wounded.
I thought about how
****** up everything was
and realized I was in a dream,
and started walking around
confidently I was free,
but then paranoid.

I tried stopping a few cars to
ask if I was okay, but they
just passed me by.
I walked up to a woman
getting into a car and asked,
"Am I in a dream or just dizzy?"
She replied,
"You're just dizzy,
do you need me to get a doctor?"

"No, I'm gonna be just fine."

If you don't wave flags in people's faces,
they'll never understand what you're about.
Subtlety is not a natural act of human
consciousness; we think in screams,
even if they whisper. Hence;
"Austin Heath Music".
Like a gunshot in the suburbs;
not uncommon, just annoying.
Not uncommon, either, to think
lowly of your species
if it commits war and genocide.
"Austin Heath Music"...
has a certain ring to it, right?

If I was a drinker, I’d be dry on the rocks;
if I was an addict, I’d be dead.
I’m not proud enough to call myself a writer
and I barely scrape by with the title “poet”.
It’s not all the same, except it kind of is,
and if it’s all the same to you,
I’d rather be a maniac, or pure ****, with good definitions,
than another ignorant sack of **** with lazy reasoning
and a demeanor leaning towards believing
"I’m above it" really means you are truly above it.
If I was a gambler I’d go all in on my debt,
and wind up missing fingers and half my life
to say you truly believe in the things you say.
If I was a violent man, I’d start more fistfights,
and if I was more of an *******, I’d call you stupid.
However, I’m not the boxer taking the dive,
or the druggie nodding off on the transit,
or the gambler with his mortgage on a pair of jacks,
or the ******* that oppresses someone and plays the victim.
I’m not the writer that made it somewhere big enough
to ever be a has been, or a wash up. I’m a never-was.
To say this is a sad song implies it’s not comfortable.
I’m the *** of my own visions and dreams,
and all my streets and alleys are only seedy
because I wrote them that way.
At least I’m not pretending I’m above it,
while actively participating. Although, **** it,
I guess nobody can tell from a distance.

Into oblivious territories,
acting like the sun is up.
Burning the candle at
both ends.
Then both ends meet.
Walk in the dark like
some great mass,
slither on two feet.
The present is a mystery,
so why should I worry
about tomorrow?
Blind in both eyes.
Creeping as if
something slimy,
as if you'd leave a trail
behind you.
Time is slippery.
The world is hopeless.
Impossible to stand still.
Try to keep in place?
Hold still?

Weary and maybe dusty,
maybe a million years old.
Disappearing.
Shouting hatespeech
and trying to make others
as bitter as myself.
Toxic and made of stone.

Crafted of some **** harder than diamond,
but cheaper than ****. Also, I'm so *******
sick of hearing about hope in the human soul.
I'm sick of souls.
Cynicism isn't right,
but being ****** isn't lying,
and maybe we all have a little bit
of love and something else.
Exploit whatever feels better.

Maybe I said that wrong,
but if you can exploit yourself
you're the only one who deserves
to ******* do it already.

You wear your black tie
like a felony.
You wear your dark sunglasses
like a criminal.
I'm your little wallflower;
hiding in your hideouts,
riding down your highways,
looking for escape and I
don't know where I'm going.
Don't mind where I am.
I suppose I don't know.
Grim Reaper! These pills make life seem sweeter!
Sin eater... could you make me clean again?
Am I still "pertinent" to your heart?
[Am I your little wallflower?]
Am I the one you love?
I don't know where I'm going,
but I don't mind where I am.
I suppose I don't know,
and these dark sunglasses
so I never have to look away;
today is such a perfect day.
Twenty one years and
it's always been the same.

Sick sick, but no one cares,
everyone's tired of murdering me.

Or just trying, maybe everyone's just trying.

Took a map to the bathroom stall
and couldn't quite find where the
hell I am,
just know that
this place is pretty ******.

Can't sleep can't stay awake,
trying to take a break but
where the **** is the door?
Is it another place to live,
or is it something else?

I'm having trouble trying to tell,
and I don't know where to quit.

Uncharted ground in typical fiction;
all your friends around me and I'm
uncomfortable
unfathomably
alone and lonely.

Covenants between strangers
and maybe a splash of blood
a splash of innocence a
tired man's inner demons,
maybe we're all tired of
pretending we don't want
to explode.

Explode and send fangs and horns
and pointed tails and fire
and tar and dead things all over.

Parties are just riots with their
heads up their *****.

We're all alone, you know?
Sometimes we just drown in it,
and it's when we think we can
**** down some type of atmosphere
that we remember how bad lust hurts.
Lust for life, and living, and *******,
and kissing, and affection.

She holds her face in her hands and cries.
Some of us are used for love.
She opens her arm up right in front of me,
and I can't cry.
"please stop."
I'm convinced we all want to die.
I'm convinced only a ******* idiot
wouldn't consider suicide.

They broke his bones in a bathroom stall
with pipes and left cigarette burns
on his eyelids and I
washed my hands, cleaned the blood
off of my shoes and shrugged.

Some days is all you can do to throw
your body on a cursing poor *******,
but most days you seem like you know
humanity is going to eat itself alive
so you just close the door and stay
in bed for a few more hours.

They say his lies have gone too far
and they know they don't know
whether he's gunning to give up
or run away and try again somewhere
where freaks on the inside stick
out like circus sideshows.
Home is not where we belong.

Christ got nailed to a cross
and I stared and said, "So what?"
that day and every day since
I've been cursed to give zero *****.
I tried and it almost killed me too,
if you know whats good for you
keep to your own.

This world isn't made of flesh,
it's made of dirt and fire,
you'd do good
to keep that in mind.

I am on a coastline.

All of my treasure has become

everyone else’s garbage or less.

Today I lost my job.

Everyone lost their job.

Shop closed down.

Froze my *** off

carrying these guitars

back home.

There is an island out in the sea.

I’m all alone there tonight

wondering if it gets colder than this.

I'm not a lucrative billionaire,
I have no dreams or aspirations.
I'm terrified of dying.
I'm not much in any sense of the words.
Why do I look at myself like this?
What do I hope to accomplish?
I'm not meant for a million dollars,
and I never bit down
on a silver spoon.
I'm a god ****** loser.
What am I waiting for?

There’s this ******* first shift and she’s ******* magic and won’t be mine because I’m trouble and I break ****, and she’s fragile and lovely.

She tells me she’s unstable and damaged and I could cry every night if I wasn’t so convinced I can get over this.

I half *** so much but I obey my emotions.

When she gave me her number I sang, “what if?”

When she asked if I was in an open relationship I thought, “I wish.”

When I was single, she came over and I whispered, “I just want this.”

However, I try to play it cool and send love subtly, but I’m a ******* and a *** and a loser and I can’t drown my sorrows in anything so they keep me up at night.

She came into my life like a hurricane and I was swept off my feet, but I made the conscious decision to be loving to her. I cut a hole out exactly her size and she kissed me on the lips and said no.

She got diagnosed with cancer again and decided to quit fighting and I want to kiss every inch of her and make her feel like she was always deserving of the best love someone could give.

I want to kiss every part of her skin and make her better again because she is the light of any room she’s in.

I want to kiss her, but I’m ***** from throwing myself in the gutter,

from trying to **** strangers,

from singing sad songs,

from losing more sleep every night,

from hurting people I love

and

hurting myself to hurt them more.


There’s this ******* first shift and she’s absolute magic and I loved her too soon.


She’s fading from the inside, out,

while I rot from the outside, in.

Everyone seems more eager to
tell you that you're wrong,
-ahem, incorrect,-
than to actually enjoy what
you've said anymore.
So, **** it, tell more lies.
As you stumbled in,
I was sifting through these
texts and letters
because I have a key,
but no lock,
and you can't have all the answers
if there isn't any question.

You were throwing up uncontrollably into the toilet,
and I cleaned up all the chunks of *****,
although it was mostly water, but bile now.
I've seen more sickness in the past week than I'd care for.
I panicked at the pharmacy while the pharmacist
shadily spoke over various aisles to me.
I sat on the tub while you threw up the medicine he recommended.
I sat there while you laid still at my feet.
I sat by your bed when you could make it back there.
I'm slowly going broke. I'm slowly going insane.
My head is in too many places to sleep next to
you tonight. So I'm here while you sleep.
You keep apologizing, and
I just don't know what to do
to make my head want to go to sleep too.
No rush of words.
No pearls of wisdom.
No moral to these stories.

I hear her wake up
and begin mooing in pain
until she’s crying.

I’m incapable/
entirely useless to help.
So I’m listening.

I grip my bedsheets
and ponder how blood ecapes
the white of my fist.

Everything I’d ****
is somehow intangible.
Magically and

Invisibly, it
drifts about these halls, crying;
Hate turning to fear.

Grip something solid,
and wish it were the throat of
that **** ghost, haunting...

My dreams are empty,
my greatest fears are realized,
my sleep is disturbed.

I am alone now,
listening to cries of pain.
My knuckles are white.

Voices,
and
they're all mine.
I reside in the
heartbeat
of my own God;
On the scarlet
knuckles
of a
voice.
Pale night,
and fear.

When people ask if you're weird, or tell you,
or want to believe themselves strange,
eclectic, or odd.
It's vaguely disgusting to me,
cringeworthy in a mild degree.
We think we're so different,
but we are not.
The individualism of people
should be and is comparable
to the individualism of ants.
Who looks at the anthill and
sees something in particular,
something behaving specifically
"uniquely"
from every ant and every anthill?
Why do you believe in yourself?
I see this, as a conversation about
depression, and your partner
does not respect you
but instead wants to
tell you how they feel worse,
or have it worse, or "understand" more
about the affirmation or situation.
A person looking for individuality
through a lens of misery, anguish, and sadness,
is truly alone in their minds, and missing the
reality that these depressions exist without them.
The statement, "you are not alone" is an attack,
or an offense to these people, because it says
"you are not as unique as you think",
it strips them of their identity and individuality.
This is true of many ideologies and affirmations.
I quit individuality, this constricting sense
of holding everything of yourself in center,
to be a drop in the whole, something fluid.
If you split your affirmations from yourself,
you'd see we're all the same;
Affirmations are just currents in the ocean.
I look at myself; and people see a man,
a radical feminist, and sometimes a musician.
As labels, these each have their own presupposed notions,
[especially, "man" or "male" in the patriarchal gaze]
which hardly, if ever, are true,
but as affirmations, when I consent to using them,
these are no longer stereotypes that constrain me,
but similarities that I realize
I can embrace or shut out in others.
Affirmations do not make me more unique,
but similar to more people.
If I remove these affirmations to try and get to my "true" center,
my purest form of self, I see I am without meaning.
This is why I quit Individuality.

Gonna sleep a little less tonight as usual.

Probably wonder why I’m tired in the morning.

Come on in and break me;

a gentle breeze that places you on the curb.

Leave me alone then.

Winter has released me into the comfort

of a warm, warm grave.

My anxieties are eating me alive.

Like worms;

turning me from flesh

into ****.

Stress on their brows and iron in their gait.
They exhale smoke like factories.
Extra arms, and packed in like ants.
Soldiers **** innocent people.
They call themselves "warriors",
and here they've become talked up
to the positions of saints and angles.
Deified.
Soldiers **** children.
With lightning at their fingertips
and thunder on their breath.
Our unfettered support into
death and those who would
perpetuate it.
In the name of God and Country.
******* idiots. We're all ******* idiots,
and we can't tell our ***** from our elbows,
but you know what makes sense?

You'd never realize
how deep my heart is until
you're drowning in it.

Never saw the sun,
though bathed in sunlight daily.
Blind on the first day.

Second step is a promise,
and you misled them
from safe haven
to slaughter.

Gods broken in fragments,
collected in plastic bags,
kept in cupboards
and drawers.

Worships in mirrors.
Praises the reflection.

You've imprisoned
thunderstorms
in your palms;
Are you the villain?
Hypocrite manipulator?
People exist to either assist you
or inconvenience you,
and your aim is to have
one class of person.

Disposable.

My lover tells me,
“whatever you want, baby.”
and I’m still melting.

I’m still dreaming and
the pressure inside these veins
cooks a short story.

Pressure of my veins/
the bottom of the ocean,
with all it’s monsters.

“We make it happen.”,
I’m interrupted later,
weeks, or maybe days.