“In sickness and in health
till death do us part”

She exploded in my heart
threw me off my feet

Across a living room filled
with nights only she can host

I spoke of her to those across the world
who will never experience what it is
to fall for a city
it is beyond patriotism
this ineffable love for a sleepless phenomenon
who homes strangers
shook the world
with shockwaves
that equaled the chemical imbalance
its people have for their city

Under the debris of sparkling glass
she was broken  
there’s so much she can withstand
even when we always stand by her side
shards engrave themselves under thick skin
poking at the body that still believes in love at first breath

At a heart that does not know how to stop
At a will-power that questions its creator about its strength
At a body that homes an identity beyond this world
alien to it

toxicity hovered in lungs

And across skies
blushing clouds
turning them pink

Sunset wasn’t serene

The ocean cradled bodies

on their way to the afterlife

They cried salty tears


Fed up.

Her soil has felt the stomping anger of grieving mothers, fathers, husbands
families
the last words of suffocating victims who never lost hope till

The angels opened the doors of the sky

To welcome new brave souls into the heavens
to lead by example
their white coffins
wed the earth with the skies
they watch over us

Brooms brushed her face
Hands held others
Homes homed
Revolutionists revolted
Nooses were hung
judgment day is knocking
at our hearts
and mind you, we are known
for our hospitality

She cannot cry

She never did

It never suited her

But she sure knows how to roar
how to devour
parasites feeding at her immortality

I wear your ring around my finger

“In sickness and in health
till nothing does us part”

And you get to witness the destruction of mankind
The manifestation of violence
The rise of crime
The chemically induced joy that deteriorates the mind
The cancerous legions on the soul that no doctor can find
The shaman surgeon with the power to freeze time
The emotionally famished family that uncle sam left behind

The monotonous chime that causes the suits and ties to burst into reanimation
The unmovable path of the bullet that kills without hesitation
The murderous gang-banger dining in hells kitchen with no reservation
The chains that bound the vagabond with no visitations
The gruesome violence on the silver-screen that is met with joyous elation
The exchange of video entertainment for a basic education
The deterioration of the young minds that's given little concentration
The beautiful flesh but empty soul that makes a living through fornication
The ****** spoils of war that leads to mental devastation
The death of good-will with no justification

And you will not witness death but morale genocide
Not of a specific person, but of certain values that are impossible to hide
And with only one man to confide, they will continuously choose what is not right
They will put down their crucifixes so they will have more hands to fight
And only for the wicked reasons will they unite

And you will witness them as they witness you
As you teach of accountability, as you lecture of love
But you will often be met with a deaf ear
But do not give up on those ideals that you hold dear
Because if you look to the edges of the earth, and then gaze above
Ask yourself: Where do I want to be when it is time to be judged?
But despite our ideals our conscience decisions proves the prophecies true
*We will be the death of mankind

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have nought that is fair?” saith he;
“Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
The Reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.”

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
’Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

You care about only a few things.
The odd specific details in our
encounters with one another,
how you become so entranced
by the wind; how I'm sometimes insane.

Is my insanity worth the few moments
you spend happy with who I am?
Are the lapsing courses of impending
schizoaffective illness scary to only me?

It seems you're a different type of crazy.
Not a starving artist- not unlike one either
though. I wonder if it may be inside your head
as you watch me, watching you.

I'll break the poetic rambling, poetic romancing
and tie myself to the tree that is the wind flickering
across your hair, beveling your face in the morning
light as we walk, and you talk about your dreams.

Do you know anything about the nightly terror?
The slow and collapsing waves of the mind as
they reflect on horrid dilapidation, horrid existence?
I wonder as you wonder if I wonder too.

Oh! The saint has called upon the regal
battleground of Illinois to deliver me
a message of utmost sincerity and
inner-beauty. A quaint "I love you."

You ask me if I could ever be less
complicated, non complacent. And
you also ask me a million other things
I dare not answer, I would never answer.

You entertain the idea that inside my irreverence
there is some hidden truth or holy gospel undelivered
by your poetry books and your indie rock bands.
I can't see past the orange highlights in your hair.

How beautiful! What marvelous features on your
face, what exquisite traipsing lust! Sometimes
I disgust even myself with the utter health
of my persistent reeling comments on vanity.

And I suppose it seems quite blank and dim.
I mean to never have a single fear.
I see that you have become kind of slim;
the way you hurt yourself is what I leer.
Would you ever be kind enough to stop?
I don't think that you understand my plea.
You stand in the center of my dad's shop.
But I can see that you are just a flea.
A passing wave on my own separate sea.
I was writing a sonnet until you-
lost my train of thought by
cutting yourself. Can't you see?
Can't you see?

Nothing matters so why believe-
in someone who you'll barely see?
Maybe twice a week I'll entertain you.
Maybe twice a week a shaded hue
will fall to stop my clue-
less heart as it bursts.
I am cursed.
I am cursed.

So, I'll bear the weight as I watch the way the
red scar, jagged runs along your pale neck
as you undress, your v neck dress.

I'll see your perfect figure in every glass
and every reflected tabletop, my dear.
Chicago has killed you.

And every party-
every piece of sanity
is useless, hopeless.
As every man-
every other lover
is just as mindless.

I wish that-
with you I
could complete-
a thought-
maybe without
the stutter-

but with beauty
comes a sincere-
scarily closing
portion of my
chest.
A lapsing
wave as I-
proclaim
to never
breath again.