If this message somehow gets to you
and/or applies to you whomever you may be
whatever you may be going through
assuming you are someone who understands that there is nothing
"people like us" can do about it
because the things that trigger this cause
are the things that we can no longer have a hand in changing.

or maybe we just want to be left alone about it...
not literally... i find the usage of this expression to be ironic.
or maybe we are impossible... yea impossible for you to define?
understand?... accept?

and you simply do not like that you cannot understand the method of this madness
rather than ask... you channel all your energies towards trying to get it out of me
well.. here I am again revealing to you the fascinating wonders of what makes me-

it seems lately that I, like you, just more-so...
have been getting a lot of attention lately as to my

"wanting to die"

look at it...
just look.
...

this feedback is first and foremost... unwarranted
It is not simply that I "want to die"
I don't know if I believe in such a thing
I have thought about it before
once or twice...
daily...
hmm...
Is it peculiar that I find this so unnerving?
so... ordinary?...

anyways,
let me reassure you it is quite the contrary
you see I am drowning in a cluster-**** of swallowing misconceptions...
for some reason people get the wrong idea...
and this has an enveloping effect...
a drastic one

It is not that "I want to die"
It is that I want to start living.
for once,

without thinking about it.
but maybe,

just maybe,
I'm the one who just doesn't get it...

when you give people what they are actually looking for
instead of what they're used to...

Dear all of the above,

Why do you ridicule me so?
Severity, Severity, more than you’d ever know
The extent of beauty I see in the world
Perplexed by the forbiddance you administered, hurl!
Why me? Why someone who has been doing nothing
but describing beauty his whole life? Irony
Why me?

The supreme experimenter
The great accursed
Anonymous
Sad clown
Sad clown

Why me?
A Poet.

One specifically who followed in the footsteps of Poe
not through choice or influence
but because life chose a similar path for me
Dear life,
Dear nature,
Dear conscious, subconscious, unconscious,
Dear collective conscience,

Dear existence,
Dear heavens,
Dear spiritual realm,
Dear all that is and isn’t,
Dear all that can be seen, and cannot…

Dear knowledge,
Dear intellect,
Dear intuition,
Dear emotion,
Dear regret,
Dear regret,
Dear regret…

******* CIRCUMSTANCE!
CHANGE **** YOU!
For the love of everything pure.

Please
Please
Please

I’m sorry
I’m so sorry
I’m SO *******
sorry…

If I could just go back
If I could just…

Please...
It’s funny how it rhymes

Samir… Severe
Please no.
This isn't real.
Please?...

x

Gargoyles live on my awning
The one overhanging my bedroom window

Like bats, they'll hang upside down
And stare in at me

I never noticed until now
Detroit is a real town

Thru a puddle, I go
Past the shuttered laundromat
The charcoal stump colonials
Carnivorous ivy
Strangling the
Rustbolt cars lining the
Pothole roads that I never noticed
Until now, Detroit is a real town

At the corner of Rosa Parks Dr.,
A rotting moonlight and gasoline aroma
A damp liquor store and a bus-stop
               sign,
6 ghosts linger around the metal post
Like silvery mothra ,
Clinging at night to an outdoor light
The saviour stop.
For tiffany spirits
With expressionless faces.

Two phantom headlights manifest
Out of the indescribable looming night
And park at the sign

The ghosts faint
Thru the double doors
Of one rickety, dutiful citybus
The tailpipes dripping wil-o'-the-wisp
As it proceeds out of my view
Into dark night shade.









.

Those truly "happy" people?
Are
Actually
Sicker
Than
Depression
Itself

A massive bison skull hung grandly in the back room
Overlooking a dirt-caked, ripped to **** couch from 1976
The year of the bicentennial
The same year he first killed something
It was a deer he shot twelve times on a hunting trip with his grandfather
But when his grandfather inspected the ****, he swore he'd never take him hunting again

After that he had to resort to setting traps
Little wooden cages with trip wires he made himself in his room
Wittling away with the Bowie his father kept in the shed
And he heated up wads of cheddar cheese in the oven until it stunk to high Heaven
Put the cheese in his cages and set them up in the woods behind his house
Then he'd sit behind a big boulder and watch silently
Barely blinking, heart racing
For hours
Until a rabbit or a cat or a raccoon caught the scent of the cheese
And zip inside the cage
Trapped and zipped up up forever
Because he'd take his catch back home
And with the same Bowie knife he used to make the cage
He used to cut the animal's head off
And arms and legs
Heart
And
Brain

Eventually his father caught wind of what he was doing
And his father asked him to come into the garage
He asked why and then his father dragged him
By the back of his hair
Like one of the many rabbits he plucked from his cages
And his father took that same Bowie knife
And then took his hand
And sealed it tight into the bench clamp
With the Bowie knife
His father sawed his pinky and ring fingers
Off his right hand
Slowly
Blood spurting all over both of their faces
As he screamed and cried
His father spat his blood
Right in his face
And told him
"That's for stealing my knife."

They're children
They're just children!
He yelled at the camera
And they're forced into this
Living Hell with no way out!

He tried his best to raise
Whatever awareness could be aroused
It was wrong
These children
They were writhing
In their own
**** and ****
Curled up in little *****
Without an inch of clothing on them

When he came in
The orderlies avoided him
And his camera
They couldn't be held responsible
For the atrocities that were taking place
In the buildings where they secured the little income they had

The nurses shot ***** looks
There were few of them
Only about one was assigned to a room
Which housed around fifty children apiece
When he asked them
Can you spare a moment?
For the camera and the lives of these poor kids?*
They're eyebrows pointed down in a sharp line
And they quickly rushed away

He couldn't believe it
Children
Not older than ten years
Running about
Bare naked
Covered in the foulest of substances
Emanating smells you couldn't imagine
Yelling incoherently
And
Just as the orderlies and nurses did
Running in the opposite direction of the camera
And the reporter
That would expose the place they called "home"
For the snake pit it was

My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family

She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year

But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile

One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her

They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"

My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-****