1
The art of growing up is teaching your skin to become a mask factory
All the orifices stuffed with paper , tainted with ****** poetry
My transgression is to pretend a part of me is still innocent
calling back to my own instinct , be as dead as a statue
2
Some nights, I am left in moods
I thought I have left behind ,
guilty feelings over my wife
mopping up the mess
of my self-evisceration
I remember as a child I would feel
bad for standing outside
obstructing sunlight from
a boy shaped patch of grass
now, in my mid-thirties,
a part of me still has not
grown secure,
wanting to stay quiet
about wounds, who
still sometimes
feels the echoes
of being told
how worthless I am ,
at nine after
harvesting a whole
onion field by hand,
or the times younger
left with the responsibilities
of alleged adults,
the ********* who hated
his life and fatherhood ,
or the mentally ill woman
who would’t get off the couch
to do anything except ****
my pets in front of me
when I was behind on chores
they are the ones who called
themselves farmers
and they have left seeds
which I have tried pulling
out of my bones,
but you always look insane
when trying to circumvent
your own skin
sometimes at night,
I can feel a bumper crop
coming on
3
Because I love to be not loved
they will ask me what my damage is
and I will say impiety is a comfort
when one was raised with grace used as a weapon
my future is a success if others fail to make sense of me
4
I learned what innocence is,
birth throws us into a world
gentle and illiterate ,
we age, hording weaponry
our skin turns to armor
by reading sharp edges,
this is a world of broken glass streets
every human soul a bottle ready
to fall off its shelf
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
1
The art of growing up is teaching your skin to become a mask factory
All the orifices stuffed with paper , tainted with ****** poetry
My transgression is to pretend a part of me is still innocent
calling back to my own instinct , be as dead as a statue
2
Some nights, I am left in moods
I thought I have left behind ,
guilty feelings over my wife
mopping up the mess
of my self-evisceration
I remember as a child I would feel
bad for standing outside
obstructing sunlight from
a boy shaped patch of grass
now, in my mid-thirties,
a part of me still has not
grown secure,
wanting to stay quiet
about wounds, who
still sometimes
feels the echoes
of being told
how worthless I am ,
at nine after
harvesting a whole
onion field by hand,
or the times younger
left with the responsibilities
of alleged adults,
the ********* who hated
his life and fatherhood ,
or the mentally ill woman
who would’t get off the couch
to do anything except ****
my pets in front of me
when I was behind on chores
they are the ones who called
themselves farmers
and they have left seeds
which I have tried pulling
out of my bones,
but you always look insane
when trying to circumvent
your own skin
sometimes at night,
I can feel a bumper crop
coming on
3
Because I love to be not loved
they will ask me what my damage is
and I will say impiety is a comfort
when one was raised with grace used as a weapon
my future is a success if others fail to make sense of me
4
I learned what innocence is,
birth throws us into a world
gentle and illiterate ,
we age, hording weaponry
our skin turns to armor
by reading sharp edges,
this is a world of broken glass streets
every human soul a bottle ready
to fall off its shelf