No longer of use,
The static colliding,
The past in recluse
In the attic, residing

Colors rot in the dust
Pictures die in the silence,
As corpses make fust
And complain under pileus.

The mycelium harvest,
In boredom, they thrive.
And much like the artist
Through flesh, their roots rive.

A place where ghosts and ghoul like to screech,
A place where even the flies couldn’t reach.

So long ago,
A boy confessed his love.
                                                                ­                                     So long ago,
Yet she still remembered,
          And she was disgusted.

The sound that resonated as she vomited
Lasted
            for
        months,



Though, she has been long gone.

So often I can’t breath with my heart in my throat.
I walk with my eyes on the ground
Wondering what the answer to you is.
When I should speak
I pick up my pen instead.

So often you are at the beginning and end of the ink that runs my papers.

When we talk, something meaningless usually,-
Though still I smile-
Though I still shake-
My heart falls straight from my throat to my gut.
And I have a new sickness.
I know the word for it.
I know it well, thanks to you.
But I can’t say it-
Write it, not even here where you can’t see.
Because now, I feel like I’m not allowed to.

I’m not.

It just makes me more sick.

Your fingers hum the introduction of regret,
Your tongue sings the refrain of apology,
And your eyes, when I can see them, vibrate the silent sound of unknowingness.

Your song is one I do not recognize, or know,
But still, I wish I could sing it with you.

I forgive you.

I saw you in the grass as shadows passed.
I saw you under a reflection on a screen.
I saw you as a small
                                    Red
                   ­                         Dot
On a tab that wasn't even open.

Like you should have been there.
How I wish you were there.

I remembered the anticipation I felt as I left the school building.
And I remembered the dread I felt
After only a few hours without you.
I always thought
"How bad would I become if it were longer?"
I think such no longer.
I have found my answer.

This
         is real dread.

I feel a clock ticking.
I'm unsure if the timer is still set, or if it has ended.
And my mind plays a familiar feeling over that alarm.

How much
                     longer?

I speak up to simply reach out to you.
Our small interactions recharge me, but make me hurt so little more.
It's so stupid of me to wish I could speak with you longer.

But you run
To the sound of me.

The heat is strong,
It won’t be long,
Till the storm comes rolling in.
The clouds will cry
In drizzled sighs
Reflecting mirrored sin.
Down in Hell City
Where Hell hath sent me
And help’s consuming time
When twilight beams
In the morning star
So high up it’s near divine.

Why be weary in the perfection of your blade
When the flaws in your step are much fiercer?
What is the point of your bruises and cuts
When you still lack the distance to pierce her?
Just how many more of her blows can you take?
When will you stop holding back?
Loosen your grip, and sunder your stance,
Don’t your opponent their slack.
Though, she is not the enemy.

A silver pen,
A silver tongue,
A silver lining
Leaves me hung
There to suspend
Above my end.
I’m running
Out of time.
The words I write,
The words they say,
The strings pulled by
The hands of fate
All let me hang
Beyond my grave.
I’m running
Out of time.

The note I left,
The sound of screams
From those below
Who watch me leave
The spot I stood
As falling leaves
Follow me
To the floor.

The loop I made,
The tears they shed,
The rope so frayed
Tore as I bled
Down from my eyes.
Why would I cry,
When this is what I chose?
My destiny unfolds.

It’s too late.

As I walk,
I feel a pain
In my arm
As worms feed on muscle.

As I drive,
I hear the roars
Of agony
As my soles bleed on rubble.

As I drop
My head on my counter,
I feel blood trickle
As silence fills my lungs.

Faster, and faster still,
I fall,
As these sharp winds
Leave my body wrung.

This lovely phase,
This lovely self-
Inflicted pain?

The lovely minutes
Of the deepest dread
As a lovely song
Removes my head.

A lovely day
Chopped up in parts
Of the ignorance
Of a lonely heart
That cannot have
The lovely harp
That once begged for its love so readily.
And when it stopped,
The silence fell heavily.

When the world ended,
There was nobody,
Well, not to blame at least.

We all know
It was our fault
For trying to tame the beast

That was each other;
The ones above us,
Who enjoy their blazen yeast;

And the gods
Who roamed among us,
Who’d rather blame the feasts.

So we killed them:
Our friends, our enemies.
We tore down our economy.

We killed them:
Ourselves, each other.
Split necks, called it dichotomy.

We killed them:
Our world, our sins,
And practiced red topography.

We killed them:
Our sons, our men
And I pretend it doesn’t bother me.

It’s over, what can we do,
But bear our children
Directly into misery?

It never started, but whoever knew
A perfect world
Could fall into asymmetry

Was thought a god,
Like you humans do,
You who are yet to know of empathy

Claim to be gods
When all you can do
Is all but value your epiphanies.

When the world didn’t end,
Everyone noticed.
Well, at the most, it was done subconsciously.

As such, nobody knew,
And as humans do,
They’d continue their rule in cacophony.

They would each learn no lesson,
They’d die in succession,
And abandon design and biology.

They’d choose all that exists:
Good, evil, abyss,
And believe they were gods wholeheartedly.

When the world didn’t end, it bothered me,
As the fruit of that tree
Is a part of me.

A boldened king
Shall take his stand
In a kingdom to be broken.
The fate holds true
For whistling winds’
Prophecy was spoken.
The southern prince
Will turn to face
The fort of his own land.
Though he stood tall
He’d surely fall
And perish by Earth’s hand.
In his absence
His place is claimed
As to the Earth he’s bound.
And much like his kingdom’s future,
True,
His body shant be found.

In the dark typhoon, swayed a dark dark house.
In the dark monsoon, flew the dark dark mouse.
Below dark dark clouds, people scream and shout,
And by the 12th hour, noon, is when the Sun comes out.

In the light, you see rubble, and the people all dead.
On a tree that had fallen, lies a small mouse head.
Through the wind left behind, you hear what the house said
As its boards were all torn from beneath its beds.

You hear the creaking and wailing of nails, screws, and springs
Which escape from their places, among other things.
They escape through the windows, and break their panes too,
And as the whistling fell silent,
All left now,
Is you.

I have a bin,
A bin,
A bin of every wish.

Every wish I’ve had,
Every wish sin-clad,
And every wish sung bis.

My wishes are all
So selfish,
For I only wish
To learn
What I would become
When every written page
I’ve read is ever burned.

I’ve wished for life,
I’ve wished for death,
I’ve wished to see
A final breath
Escape the lungs
Of those I love
Just to see if I
Would cry.
I wish that I
Would die.

I toss my thoughts,
My dreams,
My sins,
To join my ever-
Filling bin.

I toss them all,
All to become
My own ideal eye.
I wish that I
Would die.

And though I banish
All of the thoughts
That endanger me
By existing,

A voice that sounds
Just like my own
Persists on its insisting.

I cannot cry
Or spare a sigh
For indifference
Consumes me so.

In face of fear,
Unlike a deer,
I’ll die
With my eyes shut closed.
A surely, I’ll never know.
Surely.

You silence my thoughts
As trains reach their stations.
You hold my hand still,
Though I miss the relation
Of your presence that calms me,
To my head falling down
From its place in the clouds
When you are around.

So I’ll lie in this grass
With my eighteen trains running,
And you’ll occupy five,
The rest, practically nothing.
So I’ve picked up my pen
Due to three and four’s calling,
Then suddenly down,
My trains begin falling.

They stop one by one,
As I see you approaching.
I take off my beanie
In this moment, engrossing.
You lie down next to me
And you give me a “Hi."
As a smile plagues my face
And I give you a sigh.
“Howdy.”