aviisevil

aviisevil 3d

i failed you —
again
and again

you
so afraid
of everything

hidden in your room
curtains drawn
windows boarded
lights gone dim

bowed before your gods
praying
begging
knowing

i’ve never known
anyone stronger —

to live
as you did
to love
as you have

exhausted
fighting
still dreaming

the world
wasn’t for you
but you
never complained

so this is
my ode to you

i’m sorry

#dark #sad

aviisevil Apr 7

tomorrow eats itself

last week
was survival.

i chewed the hours
like glass candy,
smiling blood.

tomorrow
i return
to the fire.

even the tears
have abandoned me—
silent deserters.

if only
i were the abyss,
endless.

or the pit below,
forgotten
and deep.

if only
i were meant
to be devoured—
ripped, gnawed, gone.

or maybe
a silver cloud,
slipping between
sun and sorrow.

a mountain,
unmoved.

a river,
unbothered.

the sea,
never full.

but alas—
i am only me.

and tomorrow,
i burn again

aviisevil Apr 6

it comes in rage

It comes in rage—
silence spilling
like ink
onto paper.

A sinking feeling,
sharp and familiar,
knocks on my door.

I feel her weight
pressing through the walls,
settling on my chest,
burrowing deep
into my flesh.

Her wild eyes
cut through the dark—
searching, knowing.

I hide
behind the curtains,
soft and useless.

The door stirs—
opens
the fire grinning.

Flames climb,
and smoke thickens—
curling into the corners
of the room,
into me.

But it’s alright.

I hardly breathe
anymore.

#depression

aviisevil Apr 5

the house I haven't built (the art of grieving vol. 3)

I breathe here—in this house
someone else built.

And I’ve lived in houses
built by others—

some far, some near,
but never mine.

I call this room mine—
these things, these clothes,
these books—
they are mine.

Aren’t they?

I look out the window
and see the trees, the sky,
the birds—

they’re not mine,
but I keep them close anyway.

I have loved,
and I have cried.
I’ve made others cry.

It’s not a fair deal.
It comes and it goes—
it rarely stays.

Like the words I bleed—
I confess,
I rarely know what to write,
but I write anyway.

And why do we write?

For someone to find us?
For us to find them?

For them to see us—
just see us?

There’s no art in this world
that isn’t a longing.

There are no happy songs,
or paintings, or photographs—

they’re all fleeting.

They don’t exist
the way we do.

You don’t have to believe me.

It doesn’t matter.
I do not matter.

My thoughts,
my dreams,
my words—

they do not matter.

Nothing rarely does.

But I write anyway—
maybe you’ll find me,
and none of this will matter.

#love

aviisevil Apr 4

the art of grieving vol 2

children don’t come out to play anymore,
my friend says, rolling matchsticks between
his fingers.

remember when we used to play until dark
until our mothers dragged us back into our homes

he says this between lighting another cigarette

that's why these young men today
can't run, can't lift—
they drop like dead flies on treadmills
their hearts can't take the madness of the world

he sips his third beer

we used to roll in grass, in dirt, in blood
trying to break ourselves
trying to break each other

tell me—
how many bones did we break
before turning eleven?

I try to say something
but nothing comes

he looks at me
and stares off into the distance

remember when we used to climb trees
there are no trees anywhere

what happened to the trees?

I guess they needed more homes, I say

he tosses the cigarette **** into the empty can
and the can onto the freshly cut grass

he looks at me
then starts to walk away

dusk is here

I think I'll sit here for a while
while my friend goes to look for
his mother.

aviisevil Apr 4

the art of grieving

It is grief, I'm sure of it, it is grief— she says, swinging her arms.
I look at her bright eyes and trusting
smile—then I look again.

I know it in my heart, she says.

She is small but larger than life,
and I wonder—how much room does her heart have?
Is it full of grief?
If so, where does she keep me and my longing?

She takes a sip of red wine,
and I notice her pretty lips.

Oh, how tormenting it must be
to be such a fine, lovely creature—
to speak of sadness,
to spell it out,
to give words, and meaning, and shape to suffering.

I wonder if a lonely man can do such a thing.

I’ve seen men cry, yes—
and I’ve seen them clench their fists,
break porcelain cups—
and break themselves.

But I’ve never seen them become poetry.

aviisevil Apr 3

Nights child.

Night’s child—sorrow of the
morning sun.

April arrives—bare, too soon,
unraveling the winds.

Do the mountains know?
Do the rivers?

That you are the light,
sharp as the moon.

Pink blossoms bloom—
splitting the bluest sky.

Do the seas confess?
Do the sunsets?

That you are the
ocean’s dream.

Bricks of the city quiver
as the hammer comes down,

red-soaked—like the blood moon
on paper and ink.

Pearls, flowers, and rains
blossom into spring.

Green meadows rise,
turning into butterflies.

Do the stars concede?
Do the shadows?

That you are
summer’s smile—

child of heaven
and dawn,

vast as I am
small and barren—

hope of the
morning sun.