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Quixotic Feb 7
I have no compassion
for myself.
This loneliness
has become a monster
blooming dwelling residing
within my flesh.
I want it to vacate my body permanently
I do not care what means it uses.
Quixotic Jan 26
Brandishing a scalpel
I chisel free my heart
Lift it thumping to my lips
Taste the first brawny bite
My own lifeblood drips down my chin
as I smirk in victory.
In matters of the heart,
one must consume or be consumed.
Quixotic Nov 2018
• Stupidity is doing something even though you know you shouldn't.

A response to "how are you?"
that's more than just "fine."

Wanting ten dollar guidance
in exchange for a dime.

Then deciding to share
everything in your mind.

Expecting acceptance
when you choose not to lie.

Trying not to feel foolish
when you show your grim side.

• BUT stupidity is also:

Allowing your shame
to convince you to hide.

Thinking nobody cares
since they're so hard to find.

Wishing to end it
'cause you're tired of the climb.

Believing the only
way out is to die.

Forgetting this moment's
a point on a line.

Ignoring that nothing
can heal you like time.
Quixotic Nov 2018
It starts out soft
As I'm leaving your house.
The gentle rumbling
Sounds like a giant's hungry belly—More like
The worries tumbling noisily inside my mind.
The clouds glow with nebulous heat,
Atmospheric stress that can't be contained any longer.
I pull onto the interstate as
The echoes grow louder,
While a forgotten song
Plays through my car's speakers.
I hear the familiar words and
My raging mind is stilled,
Marveling at the occasionally baffling timing of the universe.
My eyes feel prickly and
I fight that urge to sneeze the tears away.
The song ends—but
I start it over and
Over and
Deep thunder claps vibrate inside my hollow chest.
Turquoise veins of lightning slash across the sky and
Down towards the trees and hills on either side of me.
They scar my world with bright green dagger wounds.
The trickling rain in my eyes works to clear my hazy vision,
While the torrential tears on my windshield make the panorama I see a watercolor.
The lightning is chasing me—
I swear the car in front of me was just sizzled.
How can something you love so dearly
Also make you tremble in fear?
Squinting out the windows,
I see many fellow travelers
Who stopped when things grew frightening.
I look out through the waterwall and
Wonder if I should stop as well
Before things get any worse.
My hands grip the steering wheel,
Fingers tapping with indecision.
I know what's to fear:
I've known all along.
I've always loved a good storm.
Quixotic Nov 2018
Driving down the interstate,
Staring into the dash,
Hydroplaning (lost in thought and
Glowing by too fast).

At first I think the droplets
Lay down smoothly on the glass,
Like a most precious mosaic
Painted in the distant past—

But NO.
This holds no loveliness at all:
No orderly blueprint here, just
Clearish blue that splatters
And perilously bars my eyes
From seeing the road ahead.
I notice how the teardrops hit
With no apparent pattern.
They land, the wipers swipe them down,
A moment of clarity—
Then immediately more rainbombs fall and I'm blind once again.

The wipers and raindrops speak to each other
With the voices of my soul.
The rain is yelling:
In every wipe I hear the frustration:

"Look at that, you're fat!"
"People tell you you're beautiful all the time."

"Look in the glass—you're as pretty as an ***!"
"Appearances aren't everything."

"True for some, but not for you; you have no talents or smarts in you."
"But you got a degree! In a field that you love!"

"Three prospect-less years have gone by; maybe you're just not meant to fly."
"You have people that love you—even a cherished man!"

"Love me they do, I know it's true; still they grow tired of my ever-gloomy hue."

Driving down the interstate
Staring into the dash
Noticing the ceaselessness
Of the raindrops on the glass.

I know the storm will never end;
It will always bring me grief.
The only escape from the tempest
Goes against my own beliefs.

I'm certain how this night will end:
With the dull scrape of relief,
Back to my vice that helps me cope
With demons underneath.
Quixotic Nov 2018
I've decided to stop writing poetry,
(Not that my words will be missed),
You see, every time I set out to form lines
I discover my point goes amiss.
It's not that I have no opinions—
I have cloaked depths I long to convey—
But each time that I start to inscribe what I feel
I'm scared off by the wonder of "they."
This "they" can inspire,
Challenge, remake, and cheer,
With words of a worthier life,
While the letters I press
And the words I create
Are bogged down by mankind's common strifes.
So from this day forth
I endeavor to stop
Seeking phrases within my own head;
The challenge I pose is to stop WRITING poetry,
And to start LIVING poetry instead.
Quixotic Nov 2018
Sprawled longways 'neath the blankets on your mattress
My ears fervently absorb you through the walls.
Hazy rivers cascade from your shower head—
The cadence soothing and familiar.
Lathered soap foam leaves your skin and slaps the floor—
Deep-voiced Goliath strugg'ling to roll his Rs.
Then the giant goes still.
All is silent but the overhead fan.

Curtain sliding
Towel drying
Muffled footprints 'pon the carpet...
The bedroom door creaks open
To the whisper of my spreading smile.

— The End —