i feel like a soul
trapped in a body
that is trapped in a mundane, sad life
and i need a weapon
to break this body open
so that my soul come spilling out and i can be free

oh what should my weapon be?
so many choices
so little time
before the time bomb in my mind explodes
leaving me a mess of thoughts and emotions
resurfacing repressed memories
makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop
the demons have been let out of their cage again
and they're here to play
tugging on my heartstrings
constricting my throat
crawling under my skin begging me to join them
it's so easy, you can do it i know you can just hold on tightly, pull the trigger, that's right, you're doing so well
we'll see you on the other side

Sometimes I feel
I should be dead.
The fact that everyone hates me
is still in my head.

Sometimes I feel
I should just live.
Ignore the hatred
in me, I should believe.

Sometimes I feel
I should not write.
Hatred in comments
it does not feel alright.

Sometimes I feel
I should just write.
Ignore the hatred
I can win this fight.

the doll and the dummy wore for god a wire.  she had a dog whistle and she a ****.  my fist grew faster than my mouth.  your dad was asking a ghost looking for its head how to hold a baby.  thunder what it remembered.  your mom the palmreader with a broken wrist was pumping milk…

“There is no time for comedy;
every stone regains hope and dies immediately.”* - Frank Lima

sleep,
the clueless angel of a working elevator…

(father likes to say
a cricket
in a stone
is not
trapped)

meal of the orphan
part orphan

simpler, then

the seizure
that set
your father
to music

the baptized
bowl
of your mother’s
hair

the book I brought to burn
blank
as always

the pair deciding which hand
would come between us
which hand
would enter…

I caught the poor mask
sighing
on its own

I am ugly and you are not

in a ******* on fire
the arsonist
fills
the mouth
he is trying
to leave

(it is not hunger that eats the horse)

I am past the age of what
in a former life
I died as, a spoon

is a fork

asleep in the hand of god

her hair
at night
is going
places

(a fish licks through the ocean)

this is my camera
the salter of dust