stark coal tables that deny, to respond
entrenched in my own emotions,
places that seem as hopeless as
holes in the whole of germany,
otherwise would just be tables
but they arent
because as i ask questions again and again
it is they that shatter the sound waves,
they who break through to deny any lasting echo,
they who seem to forget that i asked any question at all.
They are traumatized men, attempting to unsee gunfire
that broke through their best friends hearts
that is what these tables are
naturally catatonic, or in the throes
of post traumatic stressful flashbacks that
snap back inside my head like
I was there too
Nova gas tastes like bittersweet memories
Bittersweet memories taste like gunpowder.
Like pennies.
like pens  that ive chewed through until the ink bleeds into my mouth
They leave open wounds in me,
i wound writing utensils.
Seems like we all value leaving our mark.
by scars, and by
ink sinking into skin and hearts.
Every man makes flesh his canvas.
****** is making a habit of starting many projects and never finishing any,
slashing strategic gashes across canvasses with no past infection,
unraveling every cotton fibre from the edges of that single stroke,

Suicide is scribbling every ounce of inspiration on a single sheet,
until you come to its end.


I , am guilty ,
of both.