Book


Filled with the dead trees
From our backyard.
It’s shell hard, yet soft, protective, gentle.
Covered in a picture, words,
And a name
That brands it as theirs.

The insides:
Scratched,
Torn because of anger
Fear
And disgust.
And all it can do,
Is bleed it’s dry
Black ink.

We take for granted,
These small,
Yet large pieces of art
The ones that tell us all about their life
And about the ones who created them.

They sit, quietly,
Solemnly,
Unfortunately,
Across the desk,
Lined up with their brothers
Unopened,
Unread.
Yet,
They have been read.

I quit
your ******* list
a long time ago...

"You are not alone. There is beauty in sadness. Many run from it or treat it as something that shouldn't be. We need to feel sadness to feel joy. Your sadness is cold. Can it be made to feel warm?”

can it?
I am starting
to think
yes

realizing
everything you said
carries its own weight
in truth
without sadness
I wouldn't know joy

duality
is in
every part of this universe
from
the ever shifting
ocean
in my soul
to the massive star
we named
the sun
and
she shines
because of duality

massive
amounts of energy
bursting
pushing
to get out
the weight
of her being
crushing
pushing down
with equal
force

the suns
core
fuses
transfers
makes
something else
out of
what is inside her

her hydrogen
becoming
helium
the constant change
creating
something almost
stable
almost
predictable

one day
there will be nothing left
inside of her core
to fuse

one day
I will have nothing left
inside of my soul
to write

when there is no more
hydrogen
left
no more
passion
left
she will collapse
under the weight
of her existence

the pressure
of this alone
causes
more
change
heavier
elements
heavier
thoughts
she will swell
growing
larger
darker
intrusive
making us feel
her being

leaving us
with no where to go
but to accept
and to be
engulfed

after
there is nothing left
she will collapse
from
her giant self
overbearing
us and our neighbors
becoming
a fragment of who
she used to be
rotating
still
the passion
is gone
her life source
is gone
the light
lingers
until she has nothing left
her light
burns out
and
until time stops
she will stay
a brown
quiet
dwarf
all that's left
are her memories of
the life
she gave
to us

I hope
when it is my time
when my fuel
has become heavy
and when I engulf
those
around me
forcing
my deadly heat
onto
my
planets
that I won't collapse
into
a smaller star

into
a lesser version
of me

i want to be
big enough
that I explode
tearing
through what's left
with the beams of energy
I've stuffed inside of me

let my supernova
carry the dust
of the planet
you were
let me
push you elsewhere
farther
let me
bring new life
energy
hope
when I explode

and then
let me eat
anything
that gets too close
you will never leave
you are mine

I try to be kind
but.

it is Tuesday.
I am crying
smoking
alone
outside my work
I am quite obviously
trying to keep it
on the DL.
there's no
loud,
dramatic weeping.
if
I wanted a random strangers
fake
caring
I would howl like the wind

I
would flail my arms and legs
against the ground
kick
scream
make it known
that I want
your words that drip
with fakeness
and your selfish
motives.

"hey-
are you okay sweetheart?"
do I ******* look okay?
why is it
any of YOUR business.
old man
stranger
I am sure you meant well.
but believe me
I know that
anything "comforting"
on your part
will just be regurgitated
lines
that you read somewhere
or heard someone say once
do not
pretend to give a ****.
keep your
unwanted
unnecessary
words

like,
it will get better
(thank you, all seeing being of the future)
don't cry!
(******* and don't tell me what to do)
but you're too pretty to be upset!

so since
I am physically attractive to you
Am I not allowed
to feel?
I am prohibited
from having
any emotional depth
any
substance
that would make me
a human being.
you make me hate life
ten times more.

maybe that's somewhat unfair.
maybe he was only trying to help
maybe I should
appreciate that somebody
wanted to make me feel better.

no, he wanted
to make himself feel better
a pat on the back
so he can pet his ego
and make himself feel
like someone who is
real.
good.
kind.
I don't care
for your half hearted sympathy

*******
I don't want to be
something
that helps you sleep at night
that makes you feel
like you are worthy
of the things you desire
worthy
of the women
you ******* to
worthy
of devouring
the grilled
carcus
of what used to be
a living being
that is sitting in front of you
with a bow on top.
you are worse
than the animals you eat.
you are worse
than the spit
that I launched at your feet

which to you, was
"way out of line"
good.
think about why it happened to you.
learn from my spit.

my words of advice
to this man:
next time you are out
and you see a stranger
who looks sad
or someone
who is crying
silently
to themselves
leave them the **** alone.
if they're making a scene,
that's something.
but there's a reason
I was discreetly
crying.

you are not entitled
for me to share my pain
my thoughts
my feelings
with you
if I wanted to,
I would.
me spitting
at your feet
is nicer than any words
that would have exited
my mouth.

“I have something for you to remember me by,” said Tim.

    He held a little foam Hippo – the lone play animal supplied by the loonybin to patients in need.

     It was brand new – just as every Hippo looked – and I wondered why he’d chosen something seemingly impersonal in comparison to his other, odd gifts.

     However, what he did next made his hippo – my hippo – absolutely ideal. To people like Tim and I, that is.

     For, to my astonishment, he casually took the toy in his hands, twisted, and ripped it cleanly  in two.

     He ripped off its head, which he gave to me, whilst he kept the body.

    I will never get rid of that mutilated, foam hippo head. For he understood what no one else had ever come near.

     In this way – perhaps – Tim and I became synonyms. Synonyms for what ignorant perceptions would later christen ******, or merely, crazy (the latter - coined by those who remain too depressingly colloquial to invent unfounded diagnoses).

     These epithets, catalyzed post personifying such societal taboos as Tim or I committed, follow me still, and have yet to disperse.
  
     A criticaster disaster, personified.

     Yes; in this way – Tim and I became synonymously insane.


•

i feel sick
more sick
than i have in a long time

and i don't just mean
with myself
though
that sickness
is ever present
i mean
the back of my throat
feels like donald trump
cut off his *******
and shoved it down there.
and
my head feels fuzzy
and full
of water
like vertigo
without the dizziness.
i am cold
but i am not cold.
yet to me
the way my body feels
finally matches
the way i feel
inside

i need to finish closing this bookstore
i need to go home
to my bed
to my family
to people who love me
but this bookstore
is the only place that feels like home
besides inside your arms
in your bed
which, metaphorically,
i shat in.

today
i googled
how to buy cyanide
and got angry
at the website
for not giving me better directions
on ******* myself.

sometimes
there are people who enter your life
for whatever reason
and if god were real,
they would be angels.
one of them
today
gave me a reason to live.
he told me to keep writing
and i did
even if it's just me
typing
with tears streaming down my face
but it helps
it makes me not feel so alone
it gives me something to do
when i am lonely
and when i don't feel whole
instead of searching for my own inner peace
in strangers eyes.

the second angel
i met today,
they left a comment
on a piece of my writing
telling me
it brought them empathy,
and understanding
to a negative part of their life.

now, if i am a horrible person
and i don't see a point
to life
to being in debt
to being depressed
to hurting others
to hating myself
and everything around me
well, it makes it all worth it
if ridding this negativity
through words
can somehow
bring positive light
to somebody else.

somebody better than me.
i will write
and i will continue to write
until i die
from either somebody killing me
or natural causes
i will not
take my own life
not for the sole reason
that it would actually break my mothers heart
and she is too kind of a person
to deal with that
but because
my pain
becomes someone else's
closure

because
negativity
can become positive
if you transfer the power.

because
music
art
and
literature
are the only things worth living for
and the only things
that anyone ever
needs
as a reason to live.

thank you.