Like peas and a plastic cup of cyanide,
release me,
please.

I'm a mess that can get up,
that scream the taste of you out of my
******* mouth.

I only live for one second,
and nobody sees me at night.
If they do they see something
beautiful at 3AM;
Something gorgeous and
wounded
like me.

Got the box in the mail,
tried to cry myself to sleep.
Stood me up 3 or 4 too many times,
and all I can do forgive you.
I'm not capable of much,
but I swear it's just
because I'm a princess

and no one wants to sweep me off my feet.

No one wants to face getting wounded for me.
They all want to test my armor,
but I'm dressed to impress
&
They stabbed me so many times
I was nearly stabbed to death.

I'm a mess and there's nobody here
quite wounded like me.

She's not a shy bird,
builds an army of the disillusioned.
Fleshy sacrifices. Don't hold back,
pull every trigger,
pull every pin,
drop every bomb,
swing every blunt object
in the house if you have to.
I'll be right here waiting.
This isn't new to me;
after you lose your name,
after you lose your pride,
and after you lose your purpose,
losing your body seems to be
in line on a continuity.
Seems trivial.
Easy.

I work now and have no creativity during the night.
I don't sleep well either.
I crash a lot during the day.
I slip into deep sleeps for
2 seconds at a time.
I'm mostly just
bored.

All the money probably won't get me
anywhere, anyways.

It wasn't a guitar solo.
It was a guitar and me going
******* on each other;
if it seemed cacophonous
that's because it was
supposed to be.
One of us is going to destroy
the other eventually.
Am I supposed to love a guitar?
See, I wake up next to her,
and look into her eyes,
and it's only love I see.
Warm skin in sunshine beats
factory made in China.
The curves of her shoulders,
or the lines that form her smile,
versus the curves of it's body,
the blades that vibrate at every end.
I painted it yellow, but when I see her
I feel it. Warm.
Me and that instrument are enemies
till either of us dies.
No, I do not love an instrument.

I want to speak in poetry
about how when people say
they'll be here for you,
they usually lie.

So much has been lost to
a cold war of passive aggression,
passions in long succession,
maybe spite.

Stings like alcohol on a fresh wound.

We all get here eventually, maybe,
I'd throw us all away to just be
the last one laughing.
The last one on top of this pile of demons
with a massive crown of scabs
fit for some king monster
&
large beating disgusting
wings.

This empire needs no throne.

Undetectable by the naked eye,
you slip threatening euphemisms
[Bruce Lee yelps and noise]
into the softer parts of my body.

Sleepless unlike god-fearing mortals
drink wine fermented of kitchen tears,
fermented in Dixie cups
held closed by the pressure;
image of a social butterfly
with wings torn off by
childish tyrants.

Sneak into my tonsils
and tear out every crown
on your way to my lips.
Pillage and loot and riot,
bleed from the mouth.
Held together by wire.
Sewn shut with iron.

Eyes as two independent souls,
each a decoy of the other,
hidden, even to themselves.

There is an answer
to why every privileged
******* can't write;

They talk of heaven,
they preach about angels and
how they might sing, yeah,

but haven't seen one.
They haven't listened to them
and cannot hear them.

***** rhetoric
applauding their enclosure
as the door closes.

Brain dead featherweights
tethered by their bibles and
white supremacy.

"Ideology"
cult of the soul without a
purple beating heart.

***** rhetoric;
repeat Frances Scott Key and
emphasize landscape.

We've all seen the fields,
we know how green the grass is,
and how blue the sea.

Biblical visions;
worship "democracy" and
call your leader "king".

"ideology"
a mask for supremacy.
***** rhetoric.

You're going to choke
and you can't have the angels
after you **** them.

Burned in all the right places.
No help, no hands;
I console you to the
"tune" of my depression.
Silence on your end.
A buzz held down
on sheets of static.

"We've had this
conversation before",
you say.
Nothing has changed
between then and now?
Burned? Burned?
I opened all my books when
you asked, I *******
showed you all my hands.
I can't even bluff.
You know who can?

It makes it hard to sleep.
Your archives are locked
and the key is on a string
and dancing in front of me.
Taunting. Semi-humiliating.
Mocking.

Between doors.
Between "lives",
towards death.
Between beds,
between homes.
Between smiles,
but never tears.
"Between jobs."
Between doses of
caffeine.
Between waking and
sleeping.

If you're still lost, well,
you know where to find me.

You're a botfly in the snot of something
way bigger than you. A nuisance.
If it had hands it'd **** you.
You're hopeless.
You little **** stain,
you driveling dolt,
less than pathetic;
You're gorgeous
and I love you.

You are bad weather and
lightning striking for the second time
on a single target.
You are an illness,
a sore that never goes away.
You ruin things.
You ruin everything.
Even when you try to ruin one thing,
you mess that up and ruin another.
*******, it's a black comedy
and nobody can win it;
nobody can smile here.
Yeah, sure, you can't sleep tight in
your moral blankets, but can you
dance a two step holding onto
nothing but the skeletons in your closet?
I won't be grateful for anything now-
I won't be waiting anymore,
I can't keep up anymore,
not like this. If madness couldn't
keep it in place, now I'll wear sanity
and be all the more psychopathic for it.
You are as you are
and everything else
just exists, doesn't it?

Can't get closer to the floor now,
you should have fibbed;
You're so good at it.

****** it up and drew the strings together
lost the strings, fell, fell five stories,
fell through all your stories,
felt light like a feather
with a stomach lined with lead.

You're a mess again,
and you sleep in clouds
and sleep soundly all the while
a little voice in your head
wonders how.

"I think you're moving",
my sister told me over the phone
in the car with my girlfriend's parents.
"Why don't I know about this?",
I asked her, but the answer was
painfully obvious
so we just laughed obnoxiously,
bleeding from the mouth.

Everything happens behind a veil.

Saw someone drop their phone
and laughed at them.
I'd like to watch the world drop
their stupid/smartphones
and have to look at each others
stupid goat like faces and gazes.

Remind me what heaven looks like,
all I remember is that I'm a scumbag
with moral insensitivity and
you are my nightmares off the page.
Simultaneously a classic,
also a contemporary gore piece.
A landmine seized by epidemic.

Walked away with an insincere
"I'll see you later",
and I responded with a sincere
"Whatever."
Maybe I'm destroying myself in
character slowly but it takes
so ******* long still.
I cheered an old man who crossed the street alone.
I'm getting too close to yelling at a manager,
and losing a job I need to much.
Too close to the edge, but
when I think about it I always am,
and when I think even harder
I hate everything so much.

The thought hits me that I "could" someday
be a great writer and captivate audiences.
I "could" be brilliant.
I couldn't even claim my own success,
what with all these sycophants
eager to pull the rug from under me
and call it their own.
Being a musician made me a musician.
Being a writer made me a writer.
Being an artist made me an artist.
Everything else just happened,
and even if it was poignant,
none of you feeble minded ****** built me.
Remember that waking up is the last step,
and the rest is incidental.
If it all blows up in my face
you'll remind me whose hand
was in that bomb, happily.
If it tips and falls over harmlessly,
you'll want to tell me how much
your guidance meant to me.
I can't even claim my own success.

Ex-Girlfriend calls me up on a friends phone,
says to meet her at quicken loans.
I get there and she tells me her and her friends
are "getting food", except they're not.
******* Caucasian zombies rotting away in
get rich doing nothing schemes,
"Peel and orange, beat a coconut"
tell me what class of poor sap you're trying
to pry from a months rent in the name of an
"investment".
I thought I would at least have a conversation
with an old friend, but instead I got forty minutes
of some ******* belly-aching
about being a teenage dirt-dad to
try and get me into "the Elite".

It was a waste of a ******* night.

Took the train home with some loud ******* white people,
and got lost in my own reflection.
The look, that look,
like an animal getting beat by it's owner,
the pain and confusion,
love and betrayal.
I don't want your money, or they're money,
or Donald Trumps money, or easy money.
God, I want to ******* die on a bus
reeking of **** and penniless.

What a ******* waste.

They asked us to write a poem about death,
or something that summed up life. I don’t know.
I wasn’t running on all cylinders.
We had just crashed a wedding,
with Christmas lights and ukelele music,
and cupcakes. We even joined the circle that formed
around the bride and groom’s dance.
Fell into a group hug.
A gentleman with one eye and a yellow shirt waved us in.
I hope to someday be just as gracious to strangers.
So when we went upstairs and they asked me
to write a death poem, you have to believe I tried.
~
"****.
I hope there’s nothing out there.”
-“Zen Death Poem”by Austin Heath.