Ever since I was a child,
I counted all the ways we could die—
falling through ice, an earthquake,
Even the weather seems to panic.
Somewhere in the world, right now,
A fish is struggling to get by.
But it dies by the hand of a man.
who thinks death is a pastime.
We die small deaths every time—
Like scissors in hair, shedding of skin
when I knew all the ways he would leave
Once, just once in my life,
I want to feel delicate.
Not like the hole in the drywall.
shaped like a fist.
Once, I want to shred the list.
that contains all the ways we could miss
Just once, I do not want to be sharp.
like a cutting knife, like a blade
Even in death, there is rebirth—
flies, mites, beetles,
feeding on someone’s deathbed.
From just one conversation,
I could smell the rot—
the body left untouched for a month,
Is it wrong to say?
That ever since I was a child
I lived with ghosts in my house.
And I was never soft in my life.
just bones and flesh
with a brain filled with living death.

The changes which occur as far as our perception is concerned occur subliminally.

Like a polar bear shaking water off its fur

The droplets fly too fast for us too I notice them, and just as much, on the other hand we are embodying that change as one or perhaps, depending on where we've been placed in the matrix, or more of the globules of water.

This just metaphor

But each drop is a whole globe which encapsulates our psyches, which is different to our minds,
Which allows the key element, as far as sustaining intelligence is concerned, our brains, to be kidnapped by ultra sound that issues from alien life, and is connected to technology, which we are also connected to through our whole selves. Including cerebrally.

What initiated this disparity between personal thoughts and them being incorporated into a design which allows human beings to be controlled, well, aliens would argue is purely evolutionary. But, like many others, I believe it comes from individual acts of selfishness, unwillingness to connect on a deep and meaningful level, choosing to serve the government to protect your wealth, which in this case is huge. And overall
Just a 'i can do it so I will' attitude.

Of course a lot of this stuff is underground, and so here I am required to make a distinction between lack of awareness of what goes on around x, and an underground which operates even more deceitfully and corruptively than y would see if z were always aware. Or had an exceptional level of awareness which gave them the advantage, should they choose to use it of getting better care where you will often find lone human beings, which is the often harsh and neglectful landscape of psychiatric hospitals.

Here, we don't need to go into a lot of detail except to say they outright procure nonsense. And all of the patients there are simply acting, and the staff are - also - all aliens.

This segregation impacts humans severely. And they are either punished with boredom, **** and being patronized: depending on their level of awareness, slowly guided towards suicide if theyre too aware as well as, if they continue, stripped of all their freedom; and audaciously with all this still lied to, in a form of played up ignorance and making false claims about their mental health status, criminal capacity (this is often severely overblown, as of course when you have an alien controlling your levels of aggression - which in itself is enough to wind any sane person up - if in alignment with the fact that the aliens that live inside of us, are the ones we most often come across deliberately engaging with our..how do I put it? Alien physiology. For example telling the humans alien to attack or feel shame or just numb towards the real alien). Without any entitlement to fair legal representation, and not accepting structural disintegration as an authentic view and potential solution to the blatant racism towards, lying to, and just general disregard for human life across all nations as examined herein.

POoNaNNy g.  o.       d!!!!!!!!! ❤️

Almost 600 poems,
On my way to 700,
Yet some how,
I haven’t written the same thing twice.

(Ignore the sunset poems)

The hangman's noose
  dances in the wind
and the blood of the past
  is printed below
   the white washed pages
     of our history books
Hatred repeats itself
  as it bares it's rotted
    yellow teeth
and spills it putrid
  green bile
     and shouts
   it's hollow anger
Any chance of sensibility
  or kindness corrode
    on the branches
      of the family tree
as poison is passed down
    in the blood
     festering in the heart
      generation after generation
Nothing changes as the history
  of hatred is stuck on repeat
and the burden of hope
  grows heavier still
but we must carry on
  for without hope
    love cannot survive
and without love
  there is no hope
    at all

My back is aching from being bent
kneeling down to write our names in wet cement.
It’ll be there for eternity, decorating the houses both bought and rent.
Too bad I slipped and messed up the hand prints; what counts is the sentiment.

I should’ve been looking both ways
before I crossed every single street.
Regardless I trip, I tumble, and I sway
I think the problem’s within my feet.

I’m tied to you like a boat on the sea
to it’s dock; bobbing up and down endlessly.
Pushed towards you from the waves crashing,
like the boat; doomed if I’m ever cut free.

I’m burdened by games of black and white
and your determined to find a shade of grey.
We could find a way to win if we could place our pieces right
but everytime there’s a loss the board get tossed and thrown away.

I was walking down the city streets
making choices like Meryl Streep,
trying to hide a weakness to showcase a feat,
or maybe just choosing direction; actually not deep.
I was trying hard to just fill some seats
almost like I had some promise to keep,
handing out both set lists and call sheets
looking for any opportunity to sow so I could reap.

I stopped running away from life, and started running towards it.

The night sky had a cup
  full of moonlight
and the shadows played
  in the fields
   and danced in the streets
the few sparce stars in the sky
  gently sang a lullaby
and the mad mad world below
  paused for a moment
    for only a moment
and though worn and weary
  I smiled
sleep would come
   soon enough
and trouble would have
  to wait for tomorrow
    to begin its brew again...

Months ago I awoke
to an almighty hypnopompic brain-zap
provoked by dreams of lisdexamphetamine-laced cereal.
Forceful, shocking, agonizing; strange to have felt this
when I lack any acquaintance with Vyvanse, and
when I am clean of residuals. That a dream
should cause real pain, such reaction
in my being, I wonder how
my brain contoured
the experience.

Weeks ago I grappled
with a prolonged tension headache
so I administered paracetamol, ibuprofen/codeine,
And buprenorphine/naloxone. Those opioids
provoked strange daydreams, to countenance the many idioms
I've grokked over.

I used to think my superpower was depression,
I'd go around seeking pain
because nothing else would sooth me; and with each pang
I came a little closer, chasing it
like a true addict, savoring my damage,

Exalting in my lonely conscience.

When I awoke the opiates were leaving my body
so I lay in their dark waves of intemperate sensation
among what thoughts etch onto the inside of my skull
and found myself driving with a concussion
towards a home for misanthropes.

My cavernous heart will devour you whole,
Only for you to quickly decompose.
Hello? Hello.. Hell, where did you go?
Lost in the darkness that overflows.
Drowning in the depths of its thalassic hold;
Ebb and flow, this pain I know wanes only to grow.
I’m a slave, like the tide to the seraphic face of the moon.
Guided by life to find the perfect place for my tomb,
The cratered space I desire to bury myself into.

-SLuR

"He started writing," she
said, talking
about her
father.
"He's an old man now. Had
me when
he was in his
late forties. You'd think
late forties would
be enough to realize
that a man is crazy, but
well, not my mother
I guess. Or perhaps it was
the craziness that
attracted her to him. I'll never
know.
He says that writing is
something you can
do until you drop
dead, unlike
sports where you can only be
truly good when you're
young, in your prime.
Also, he's
one of those artists who
believe that
one must suffer for art. I tried
telling him that's just
plain stupid,
but despite all my efforts he
still sprinkles
razor blades on his bed
when he goes to sleep. He moves
at night
or course
and of course he gets plenty
of cuts. All over his body.
And every time he gets a cut
he stands up,
turns on the light,
and sprays rubbing alcohol on
the cut.
He says it works 100% of
the time.
Instantly he gets inspired,
grabs the muse by
the throat, as he puts it.
There's a laptop on his nightstand,
ever turned on,
and he immediately starts
writing as the
blood seeps out of
the wound. When the inspiration
wains he grabs the bottle
of rubbing alcohol and
sprays some more. There's no
writing without pain, he says. And
of course
all his stories are
about pain and suffering.
He's even got one in which
this old guy
who never did anything worthwhile
in his life
finds himself paralyzed in
his armchair
from the waist down.
How he can't do ****
and just cries
and begs death to take him
already. But he doesn't really
want to go. He knows that all
his life has been lived in vain.
He never made one
soul happy as long
as he lived.
So he gets this idea that if only he can
make one soul happy
before departing forever
he had not lived in vain.
In part two of
the story he
starts cutting pieces of his own
flesh, from the legs
in which he's got no
feeling, and throws them
out the window for
the mongrel dogs and
street cats to feast on. Then he
dies in peace,
knowing that he'd made at least
a few souls happy."

"Did he really write that,"
I asked

"Sure did," she said. "And many
more. He doesn't care
about publishing
though. He just knows that
the world will discover his
art after he'll be gone. I guess
he made his
peace with this."

"****," I said, "listen, could I
read that story myself?
Or any other
of his?"

"Like I said, he won't
share his
writings with an audience. Only
postmortem, he says."

Well, after that evening
every time I met her
I kept asking
about her father.

He was still
alive and
writing

He also got diabetes
from all the
glasses of coca-cola
mixed with
six or seven spoonfuls
of sugar he drank
to replenish his blood,
but that was
all right, apparently it only
made him write better
now that he had more
suffering in his life

he also refuses to see
or be seen
by any doctors
or psychiatrists

Well, I don't want much
from him, only
to know that
he's got a big fan
in this world