my life is not beautiful.
it just is and that is enough.
refraining from falling
into the hopelessness I've created,
that prison of my own manufacture.

I put water over the stove
and sit in this carcass
while I myself,
a cadaver if you will,
wait for it to complace me.

the lost dreams and
suspires wander these walls
that have trapped
every abandoned hope hides
behind these eternal furniture.

how am I supposed
to thread beautifully with
all this weight? my arms
are full, with bruises and plates;
***** plates I carry on
from door to door before
running away holding more.

should I drop, let them shatter?
is it cowardice, or care for the self?
my friend has said they
are no different.

to know there is no expectation present
you mustn't know what an expectation is.
so, do you, my friend?
the flies on the still life
are agreeing with us.

do you allow them dictate
that which is beautiful, why,
when they haven't got a feeling?

do you allow me dictate
that which isn't?
tell me beauty's antonym
and I'll teach you to survive

between humans and the flies
that peck at the remains
of what once lost I retrieved,
and corrupted it came back.

on my floors the plates stay shattered
my soles bleed on every step
on the edge of hopelessness.

it is not for us; romantics,
sinners of massacre, thieves of all kinds.

lives cannot be made beautiful,
yet you found beauty in its lack.
I wanted encouragement yet only found courage—
to write, grieve, and die.