You were born
For more than gradual death,
If I could
Take your credit card, and
Remove your shoe laces
I would
Instead I stare into
Your jaundiced eyes
Like a jar of dandelion jelly
The liver is failing
The vocabulary, is...
Not as easily accessible
Reaching further into
A bucket of chum
On this vessel of pain
For something familiar
I hope you find
Your reason to
Quit it all
And
Continue living

Poetry,
I thought it would contain
Splinters of truth, or
At the very least
A mound of sawdust
To sift through,
Instead
You're getting a 2x4
Straight to the
Softest part of the skull

I'll locate the entry point
And
Penetrate the frontal lobe
Where memory and foresight
Simply
Coexist

Sharing these incantations
These fevered reveries
Is like disclosing your blood type
With a scourge of mosquito

Under examination
I twist and reshape
Like amoeba
On a slide
Under an
Evaluative eye

I do not wish to be seen
Yet
I crave for validation

I will not submit to the tin foiled intellects
That I collide with on the internet
The *** and the kettle
Are as black as they are bleak
They are everything they claim not to be

Don't you hate it
When you're talking to your psychiatrist
And you think
You've made a breakthrough
Only to realize
That you don't have a
Psychiatrist

Sitting on an inexpensive chair
Slouching, as I write
Listlessly, drifting
Through another anxious night

Detailing my discomfort
To catalogue my pain
There's a map here, somewhere,
Waterlogged from the rain

It'll tell you where not to go
And what to avoid
Sometimes I reference it
If I have the choice

Subjecting strangers
To the dark contents of my mind
Adjusting the narrative routinely
Until I no longer recognize the lines

You don't need
A Smith Corona
Or a MacBook Air
Use a napkin,
A stationary pad
From the Holiday Inn
F*ck,
Write on your forearm
If you must
All you need
Is
Passion