Structure. Poetry is deemed poetry due to its structure.
Well why can’t my poetry just do what it wants.                              One word over here

One word here
Must everything make sense
An okapi does not wish it were more giraffe than zebra.    
Accepting it is is what it does and in doing so collaborates with life.
But   not us.
Does it botther  u? Does it bother you when I spell bother you incorrectly?
Bother you when My words jump around the page in nonsense.
Am I writing prose or a verse in free verse free of verse   Why can’t I just regurgitate these words upon this page and be loved and accepted for putting these words upon a page

So often are people admired for their sonnets and sestinas
But did you ever find love for structure
                  In
             madness

I trudge on


I try to go forward.

Everyone has it in their mind that above all
we must    move    forward.

I feel weighted,

burdened and uncouth.

I wish I were grounded,

yet my feet sink deeper into the soot and soil,

I can feel the vermin dancing along my toes

the alleyways of my phalangeal webs becoming nightlife hotspots for the unsocial critters,

whose only friends are the decomposing dead.



I can’t breathe.

A self asphyxiation which brings me no pleasure,

restriction of the lungs is always fun in due time when a ****** is promised,

but there is no redemption waiting for me in this final act.



I trudge on




Unwillingly I push forward.

Yet with every step I take it becomes a deeper reality,

I feel the cold vines dripping in slime creep up and onto my shoulders

Adhering to me like tar to paper.

If I shouted,

If I did my best to produce a primal and shrilling scream,

would you answer?

Would you be there to cut through the insatiable adhesion,

the horrific monstrosity tattooing itself to my skin?




Yes…..I trudge on..

But before I go...Just know,



I loved every ******* minute of it

You cut me,
with those sweet ***** dissecting lips.

Shredding every remaining shred of integrity I once believed I had,
you ***** my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

I bleed,
iodine in hopes that it will cleanse me of your disease,

rinsing coarsely through already torn layers of raw and blistered skin.

Alchemy may claim to turn lead to gold.

But what of you;
you are gifted.

Metaphysically fit,
you remain untarnished,

as you **** my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

I will allow the skeletons to parade up and down this boulevard;
and walk away from this window in hopes of rain.

Enslaved within a world of privilege.
Born into a caste of rawhide bone reconstruction.

Forced to dance for others enjoyment.
Persuaded to serve as not to feel the aching belly of a starving cell.

Languages spoken by the host, which to me seem only foreign.
Tempted by lust withheld for my master exposed.

Chaotic fantasies of a family within the ranks.
By serving you I found my freedom.

Unseen memories lurking in corners,
behind closed doors.
Abuse etched into the ink free remains of my elastic encasement.

Violet streaked vixens, dancing naked.
A circus,
of disease-ridden saviors and meek starved profits.

Lips parched, cracked corners split in two.
Outwardly reaching,
Forever stagnant.

Water must be diluted for me to sip.
While I choke.
Immobilized. Incoherent. Suffocated and still.

Fluttering at shutter speed.
Is it my heart inside my chest,
or my lungs palpitating.

It is my veins.  
Rushing with blood, or collapsing for lack of.

It is my stomach. Eating away its own lining;
Acidic paint splattered across its walls. Whitewashing them
With every sporadic convulsion I feel.

A fortnight,
No sleep.

When I do sleep, I do not sleep.

I am depressed. Unhappy.  Not entertained.  

Overly-dramatic.

Questioning every decision I’ve ever made about life,
I inflate with anger.

I think about opportunities passed.

I revolt with envy when I see artists prevail.

I am a miserable **** brimming with unseen talent.




I miss cigarettes.

I miss *******.

Cheap whiskey and grinding my teeth
until 2 in the afternoon when my bloodshot eyes’ll tell you more
than you could ever learn reading my palms.

Fake prophesies of people who never really cared,

and rooms lit up with cheap disco lights and moist carpets.
Perfectly ripened with mildew and sweat and DNA.


The saved lives of unborn infants.


The lucky few.