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.

After living a life in praise of sessioning
I'm left with an amalgamation of memories,
A blur of nights had and days that merge into
one; and I wonder whether I cradle that memory
too deeply, isn't it what I am‽
I remember thinking its infinity
so long ago, tripping into eternity,
Feeling a moment engulf the universe
in knowing I am free to remember this
anytime, anywhere. I worry about
whether a life spent sessioning
is for me, if these memories
aren't beyond me, and if
this questioning only
makes the present
burn as slowly.
Can anybody see the past within me‽
Cyan is the new white, and this prison
is finally comfortable. At last, I smell that stone ichor
as the rain brings it home; left memory, right alone.

A month ago I put down the keyboard
and after a week I picked up the pen. I had to write

to spite my worries that

knowledge had become cheap; wisdom, scarce; and
truth, a fool's errand. Cynical words
from a man trying to let go
that sardonicism and
embrace his vulnerabilities.
Will the courage to let the verse
flow from the human, onto the page
where it may be subject to another human's saccades.