rusted handle
front-door usage
overusage
what wounds have i felt
as out letters spill
sickly
and splash
with a fragrant resound
struggling to reach
the two-way juxtaposition

pains breezing down my arms
my teeth sting
my mouth tastes of chemicals
books that i wont read
i dont have time
red cardboard
looped
as an old stench,   stems
rivers, oceans, seas
of beds
with no present occupation
relishing in self pity
non-active compounds of a solvent state

ripped tendons
bullets buried in fruit
i dont want to answer
the door
worlds dissolved
endless strings
symphonies of leaves
sweeping under the open door