this could end
me
from the inside out
but it doesn't feel like that

i am oh so powerful
and this hunger is my
sword

i shall climb these mountains
unscathed
and 10 pounds lighter

i will collects the heads
of monsters along the way
with their rearing jaws

they bite into me
they roar
and shriek
for me to eat
but i won't let them win.

not me.

i carry them
like trophies
and at my journeys
end
is my prize

death greets me with open hands
he says
it has taken years,
my friend
yet i was always here
waiting.

and you've finally

found me.

there's music running up the walls
and glass beneath my feet
I write bad poems into the darkness
and hope my words may meet,
someone who hears me loud and clear
whom upon meeting I shall kneel,
to discover that there's been a wound
from which I cannot heal.
this painful madness creates a cage
the swallow settles into rest
begging with a heavy beak
for a bullet in her breast.
I was once a baby, awaiting death
so they put me in a box
and little did they know about
the ticking of the clocks.
the passing time of being stuck
silent begging to escape
get these tubes and needles out
so that I may be *****.
so I may be drugged and hurt and starved
of any love or joy
so I may drink the gift of life
that we all so enjoy.
from her cage, the swallow has now flown
free to soar at last
catch the wind inside her wings
but still prisoner to her past.
and I was put inside that box
with artificial life
the will from a father, let me live
and a mother with a knife.
she used to cut me slow and deep
and never let me rest
from all the other pain I've felt
and this sorrow in my chest.
this laughter echoes from my lips
but my eyes are red from crying
and no one knows that I smile
because I know I'm dying.
I'm dying from a lack of space
and air to ******* breathe
I'm dying from my own devices
and other's sunken teeth.
I'm dying from my mother's rage
my father's hopeful grin
and now I may take comfort
in all my countless sins.
3 years ago I swallowed pills
enough to try to die and then
I settled on the bathroom floor
and waited for my end.
but life betrayed me, as it does
my body fought for air
as I choked on my own *****
and shook until I met the stare,
of a brother who was pale as snow
and my mother with her knife
she said, this is what you get you see
as he began to cry.
I pulled through as the doctor said
you haven't got a clue
how lucky you are to be alive
from all that you've been through.
I remember the kind nurse
who held me as I cried
I remember my mother
invisible then, still wielding her knife.
It seems that I simply won't die
until I'm truly meant to,
and with that, I'm sentenced to my life
and I must see it through.
there's music running up the walls,
and glass beneath my feet,
and I write whatever I want
so that my words may meet,
someone who's kind and listens well
despite all of my flaws
and when I meet them I shall rise,
and take life by its jaws.

little girl
kitchen table is her
worst nightmare
she welcomes the
monster
under the bed
to sit with her and
endure.
this pain.
he says to her
little girl
you cannot run
like you used to with
you pigtails flying like small kites
you cannot shake
like you used to with
your wobbling knees.
you cannot cry
like you used to with
your red eyes and wet cheeks
you can only sit
and wait
for pain.
and when it comes
little girl
you must
devour
it.

and though
i may be sleeping
now
with this hunger -
an eternity

my soul will be
dreaming
of that future
where i may lift myself
from the ground

make no mistake
i am still alive

i am the
albatross
powerful and
sound

just above,
among the rain-clouds
feather-light and
free.

They said that life, itself, was all one big miracle,
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
When I walk the black of the manhattan alleys,
Or dart my eyes over the roofs bowing to pedestrians,
With the windows that frame the solitude of a lone cat,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Stretching their tired arms towards the sky,
A same routine of eternal awakeness to souls drifting by,
Standing at the ready for the open fire of the harsh winter,
And the soft song of spring,
Or sitting at the dinner table with the rest,
Or talk by day with anyone I love,
Or sleep by night in bed with anyone I love,
Or wade with naked feet along the break of sand and sea,
To me the sea is an infinite miracle,
With life just under cusp of blue and swirls of green,
So much life that of which we cannot see,
With men in ships and shells in sand,
And salt that stings the eye,
What stranger miracles there are than these?

Sometimes I wonder, no,
often I wonder,
imagine,
search all around me,
for the cause of mans belief
that he is superior to the
air he breathes,
the butterflies he captures.
Man thinks he owns the wind
that hurls itself through the trees,
he owns the stars in all of their vastness,
the midnight murk that surrounds the soulful moon.
He owns the whole galaxy,
which he clamps in his fists
like the fish that he has caught
in the stream that is his,
watching it wriggle and gasp for air.
Watching death itself.
That is the pride and joy man carries,
his golden trophy.
Man cannot wrap his arms around
the Milky Way and make it his.
Man cannot control the slowing
beat of his heart,
thickening of his blood,
the fading of his thoughts,
the incompetence,
the suffering that comes with age.
Man cannot evade Death.
Man cannot evade Life.
And of all,
Man's deepest flaw,
he cannot evade himself.