I just curl into a ball.
And freeze under the rafters.
I can't grab the words I need,
To release them between,
My teeth,
And stop sinking,
Below the frosted air on the ground.

The crown of my heads busted and broken,
Into fragments of love I'm reduced to splinters of glass.
I cut my throat with them to see if I hurt.
Idont.

I need to be bounded with leather.
Heart skin crocheted into "Another" heart.
Atrial to carotid,
Her hand to mine.
Just give me the digits of your finger,
And I'll give you the life of my voice.
In volumes of poem.

I still will be that little boy shivering, convulsing, and scared in the floor.
With block wings in the stone.
You will still be a life saver given to me as a cyanide pill
in my teeth.
Sides of the cheek.
Press.
Display death in my face.
Then be released with pain.
Needing no savior.
Only an outlet for talk.

I quit writing.
To quit writing is the concept.
The concept is happy.
Happiness is the end cause of the deceased.