"I shall write a poem today", says my mind
Though I know, ultimately no verse will be designed
And many a day has gone astray
In wait of a single, inspired rhyme.

"I shall write a story today", claims my brain
Even as I watch my thoughts miss their train
And a screen stark white mocks my plight
While the cursor blinks expectantly in vain.

"Maybe I should take a walk", I surmise
And far above me, in the skies
A troubled bird drops a ****
And inspiration splats between my eyes.

On the morning of the end, they wove the nooses of rough cord.
Daylight broke cold, the sun did not warm the Earth.

The sky was grey, the sun was dim.
The hoarse whispers of Latin drifted across the barren court yard.
Lined in stone, but for the creaking of the wooden gallows.

The sullen crowd gathers, heavy in their silence.
As they pull the bag from my head, I look blearily for you.
They shove me up the steep steps, I stumble.
The executioner tightens the noose around my neck.

My hands are bound behind me, there's no fighting death.
His grubby hand briefly grabs my face,
He whispers cruel words, intent for them to be the last I shall hear.
The lever is pulled and floor drops away, my last words I whisper,
Come to the gallows, my dear.

**Crack.

Staring up at my tree, I do not feel small.
I do not feel as though I am being enveloped by color and light that rang throughout my childhood.  
My eyes do not wink back the twinkle that they see.

There is no anticipation.
There is no heart beat to steady the carols that are sung.
Sleep eludes me still, but for different reasons.  

Staring up at my tree, I feel large.
I feel too big to crawl under and reach the packages in the morning.  
I don't see magic in the twinkle of the lights, I see the outlet they are plugged in to.
I do not feel joy or hope.
I do not hear the angel's chorus and I do not hear the bells ring.

I do not feel grown up, but out grown.
I no longer believe and yet I have never believed in something so hard in my entire life.

Maybe I feel large because it is not my tree anymore.
I knew who it once belonged to, but they have been gone for a long time.  
Maybe the problem isn't that I feel too large or too un-small,  
Perhaps, it's that I just. Don't. Feel.

Look at me
My skin
Has dealt with a lot


                         I have lived through
                         Tumors and attacks
                         Cuts and bruises from me
                         Bruises from him


My poor skin
In the end
This damage is
All for naught
Because


                            *"Scars are only **** on guys..."

You weren’t worth the
Hundred dollars it cost to
Keep you in my car. 
Princess got poached by the
League of Losers with Pedestrian Ideals.

I’d spit venom in your direction, if 
Poison meant anything to you. But
Akin to most things, so sub-human,
You miss the world moving around your
Ever pulsating veins, and repel these
Toxins with a slip of the tongue.

Around you I could line
Bodies of those you’d loved and left.
Each clasping hands with one another,
Privy to a specific type of pain, only you can
Deal out. And

In the center of the circle you’d
Stare, stunned by your state of
Affairs, and flings. Collectively concerned
For the safety of your
Rotting consciousness.

One by one, I could set these men
On fire, and hand you a place 
Where your head could be danced off.
Drunken and diving heart-first into
The burning lake of a 
Surfable crowd. Since that’s
All we are, serfs.

I hope the fire gets too close to your
Gorgeous face. I hope the
Love you receive is no more likable
Than a few more licks from the flames.
The scars couldn’t sideline you.
No one can stop ****.

Some girls were stars,
But she was the universe
I wanted my hand in hers

Her glow was that of comets
And her heart was the sun
Her light you could never outrun

The Big Bang occurred in my heart
And instead of galaxies there was love
Through the universe my heart was shoved

She was light-years of work
I couldn't stop thinking of her face
But what remains in my hand is space