there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

You're like a punctuation mark
on my vocal cords.
Making me reconsider my shaking breath.
Wondering what my words will be as I say them.
So unsure of the skin on my fingers.
Unsure if it will singe your skin
with my self-doubt and deprecation.
and my dwindling eyesight on love.
making me reconsider who i am
and indefinitely who I've been
You are the hitch in my ribcage.
The adjacent lungs in my body
withering
finding oxygen in gas chambers.
and debating on it's validity.

He asked
"Why do you continue to be sad?"

Considering that for a moment

I replied
*"Because being sad is the only thing I'm good at"

a couple days ago
i tried to **** myself
by ingesting a handful of
different pretty pills
in the hopes
they'd make me
a pretty corpse
i thought maybe
they'd plant roots
in my stomach
and grow flowers
out of my eye sockets
but then i realized
those pretty pills
would ****
not only me
but the ones who already
saw flowers growing
in the darkest parts
of me

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.