I'm sick and ******* tired
of scraping my pride
down to the bone,
asking for helping,
and hearing nothing.
my life has fallen apart
in three months
after years of beating back
against my tears and indecision.
those that want to, can't.
those that can don't want to.
the fire in my throat isn't half
as searing as the hatred i feel
for the South African tech genius,
searching for waste,
and the ones that failed us.
i carry this molten stress in me,
and i want the worst to happen
to those living their lives everyday
without worry about rent
or food or their car's
impending repossession.


this isn't even a poem anymore,
it's a cry for help.

handplucked, stared at, silence.
examined front-to-back, indifferent,
and dropped in a cylindrical hell
unlike any other you'd ever know.
subject, object, experiment.
a constant mire of hate, sin,
fear, death, lust. hate.
anything and everything adjacent
to violet highlights in calming sunsets,
a love for what can be despite what is.
inked by the growing bead in your chest
that pulsates when you dream of better,
more, the minimum. pure existence.
the bliss of firing off one round
of expression that might shift the world
and free you.
something you can't know
while others hold the jar and shake you.

heart of sadness
follows the eyes
of madness
into the scream of night.

who dares to dream
in a starless night?

war and peace then war and love

and all nightmares are real
staring into

a starless night,

and all we have
are the flames
stolen from a screaming night,
and all we have are each other.

loving is a singular
pain that sticks, caramel sugar
on skin. the sweetness,
a distraction later,
best enjoyed as wounds heal.

love in my throat, caught stuck, then swallowed--
dulled razor blades descend, hit my stomach,
and dissolve into honeyed drink that soothes me.
it is rough to start, as we may all know,
and eases itself into our core when we let the right one in.
and i did, without question. we may fight, sometimes,
about the silliest things, but that fire
is what heats my heart when i'm at my lowest.
she's beautiful beyond words, and sweet and cute and kind,
but never tell her that or she'll curse you with her evil
wizard magicks.
i love what she is and what she isn't--
patient (no), passionate (yes), and that she cares
about me in a way that invalidates my previous hurt.
i worry that i won't be good enough, that she'll find someone better
for her, or that i'll do something stupid to ruin it all.
but the essence i've consumed by living teaches me to improve,
compels me, not just for her sake but mine.
love is teaching me, warm honeyed drink in me, and i listen.
all that i can say after this is: thank you.

can i not bore into my temple
and remove the bitterest parts
of myself when they scream?

am i forced to witness their decaying
motions as they spoil and rot
every good thing I feel?

i say no, because i am worth more
than unspoken disdain, disgust,
unpleasantry.

fingertips to burdened lips,
I unsilence them and free the raindrop
words that ache to revive the good
behind the hurt.

paintbrush smattered in an ugly
hue of purely human creation,
no divinity in its intent, portrays
an image of a me that doesn't like me.

but it washes off in realization
that water is love is truth.
and that truth, beyond me
and in me, is good.

any sense of who i am or was or will be
dissolved in that caustic drink
i so willingly  consume.
in it, reds, yellows, and blues morph
into filtered hues of black and grey, devoid
of anything resembling life. and I smile.
the diary in the corner, topped with dust,
wants more secrets to fill its pages
but I'm too tight-lipped to indulge.