The words we use say much about the order of things
and about our desired position in life.

They say I'm an innocent boy and perhaps
I am among the more experienced criminals.
I thought myself well-versed in the
dark-arts. There's always more to learn.
Last night I witnessed the proclivity of cathinones
to induce compulsive redosing when smoked.
My initial assessment of pentylone was off the mark
and that scene from last night stuck in my mind,
Seeing research chemical smoked off tin foil.
I did not discover this fiendishness, but
I bore witness to it, and it hammered home
how out of touch I am with a world I once lived.
I wonder if I felt the wrong sort of compassion,
But is it ever wrong to feel compassion?
Why did I feel cognitive dissonance?
Have I changed so much?
Who is it that feels these things?
So many questions. I'd quiet my mind.

These thoughts reflect much about the order of things
and my as yet undetermined position in life.

My heart twinges
and my ears roar
with the afterthought
of my actions
in the world. I haven't

believed my story matters
for some time.
There were days when I'd listen
to Buckie High by BoC
so frequently.

I lived through
that tune for some time.

Longing to connect through that
sweet nectar, the comfort of Buckfast;
The heft of a bottle that felt right
in my hand, an extension

of my body
and its beliefs.

There's too much of this city in me,
Too many memories, and
too many faces
that don't remember me.
Someone wanted my body, and it
made me remember how much I wanted to die.
It made me ask who would ever put their heart
in the hands of this bearded villain.
The struggle to be human
killed my ambition.

Bony fingertips pry,
Cut me open, peek inside;
See the demons where they lie
Dressed in heavenly disguise.
Their feathers tickle my intestines
With sacrilegious sickness.
Bleed me of my illness,
And gift me with forgiveness.
Cradled in the sanctity of Death’s grip,
Touched by hideous intentions
With no eyes to birth a witness.

-SLuR

Practice forgetting.

There are some things
which should be forgotten.

The poems we write are being
consigned to the internet's depth
where the data does not express the

semantic intent. As for this poem penned
by the user Mydriasis [real name unknown],
This too will go, it'll pass on, fade out; because
everything is an echo.

Is thinking of all the possibilities
And letting it scare you
Into not living your life

Literally
Not doing anything
Because of everything that could go wrong

Dying
Because You can't risk
Living

Choosing the path in which certainly everything goes wrong.

The world that goes on around us
sometimes flows right past me
and the notions that grip
you and I, the motions
we go through every time
the creatures behind our eyes
meet; mutual experience, a moment

for that inner-child of ours
to shine through
and go wandering
out into the world together,

As best friends do.

What else is there to write, what else
is there? I can't imagine being together
without the fear of being torn apart.
I'm afraid it'll fall to pieces
so I embrace being alone.

I have to believe it's never too late.
I remember the kid, before the scars.
I hope to stay with this thought,

I wish I could stay with you.