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In wanting to become everything, have I become nothing?
Why is it so hard to master this?
Why do I feel so poor and incompetent?
Where has it all gone horribly wrong?

Why am I here at the bottom of the ocean, with no air and no gils?
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I don’t know what to write about
I cant sense what yearns to come out today
The nib of my pain has become dull
It tries to write sweet poetry,
But all it manages is thick illegible lines of blood.

The hurt and despair spill out,
but there is no instrument to form them to words
No skill to set them to meter,
So they flow unchecked,
Soil the sheets and make a mess

If I could I would fashion my misery into a song
To give as a gift to the next generations
They could read my words on the dungeon walls
When it is their time to be locked in
Written in acid tears:

‘I was here..

Life is inconvenient and annoying
Life is a round hole in a square peg
Life is miserable beauty and beautiful misery
Life is all that must be, and isn’t, but could be

Life is the shadow
of one moment of joy
gone forever
doubted forever

It must be reproduced by all means,
but cannot…

Life is, times up’
 Aug 2019 Kyle madill Baker
Hg
wri
ting is
threading
your           life
thro             ugh
a ne           edle
and         if
you sew
secrets
you'll
get
po
ke
d
a
l
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t
t
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.
©Hg
the more we look
the more we see
i look like you
you look like me

the less we tend
to disagree
on the little things
that are bothering

the more we talk
and get along
the more is right
the less is wrong

the more we love
the less we hate
we more or less
will find a way

the more we hold
each other up
the less chance of
coming undone

the more we look
the more we see
we more or less
will all agree

that i'm like you
and you're like me
all one big happy
family
Sometimes all you need
is a person who can listen to you
when you are not talking.
Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
 Jan 2019 Kyle madill Baker
Kam
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”

My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.

The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.

Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you, 
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.

This world is not tender.

II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.

split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.


My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.

But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.


III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.
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