The ceiling fan
Perpetually revolves
With dust on it's blades
I meant to take care of that
Several days ago
****.

I am
A slave to likes and reaction
To the effect of
Altering my work
In a deplorable display, of
Pandering
Should I reduce my word count?
Should I trim my magnum opus?
Lean poems are easier to digest
Should I exercise restraint, and
Cut lbs off my body of work?

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

My survival manual
Has accumulated dust
It's worn, and
Badly used
Like combat boots
Or a poorly-folded
Roadmap

My psyche,
Heavy, and encumbered
I need to unpack a few things
And wondered,
If I could grab a beer,
Maybe occupy an ear?

Some die by their own hand
Through means of rope, pills, or
gunpowder

With a pen and a drink
I choose to live through mine

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

Your reflection
Sits on the surface of the water
Glimmering, and still
Like an unlit oil lamp, or
The fraction of the moon
That feels sociable

Though, I know
You share more in common
With it's depth
Dark, cold, and
Full
of
Wonder
I have a strange impulse
To dive in
Dome first

Though, I fear
I would fail
To navigate your depths
Burden you
With shallow grievances
Or worse
Drain
You

This is *******
This is poetry, baby
It's not all about gentle kisses, and
Sweet description
Sometimes it's about getting
f*cked

Now that the algorithm
Has provided me with
Your undivided attention,
Get lost

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

Bruised, and mishandled
Like the last fruit in the produce bin
I don't know if I can
Kiss away your pain, but
I'm up for the challenge

I'd assemble
small structures
Out of the kindling on the floor, and
I'd watch in horror
Through the empty space between my Fingers
As she'd raise the small hatchet, and proceed to
Lower it with haste
Splitting the wood
Into halves, then quarters
Just missing her extremities
Before tossing balled up newsprint
Into the opening, and
With the strike of a red bird
Politics and comic strips
Caught flame
The warmth, and comfort
Of the fire takes over

It still burns
In my memory

There used to be an arcade here
'til it caught fire
Some said arson
Some said faulty wires

But nobody knows for sure
And we may never learn
We just know the machines
Lit up when they burned

In a digital picture booth
Seeking the Fountain of Youth
Through *** lifts & artificial *****
Or some Universal Truth

Surprise, surprise
It's just a carefully woven
Web of Lies
No one gets out alive

You can't avoid atrophy, or defy age,
Acquire knowledge and create
Everything else decays

I used to fantasize about suicide
Thought I'd save it for a rainy day
Now I wear a bracelet that says
Don't hesitate to resuscitate
I have a daughter I need to raise

I doubt death
Will tremble to take me, but
It should stop to consider
That I know how
To throw
A sucker punch