atlas, you man
of a monster:
why have you
laid my mother
out on her back,
across the earth?

i swear to you,
fail to keep her
heartbeat trembling
and i will shake the
universe from your
shoulders.

no more smoking
breaks in the
lavatory.

you're made
of stone anyways.





**(c) jude rigor 2014

i swore to myself
that a flick of the tongue
would never shelter self-hatred
so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being.

contagion is a sad **** thing
and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor
those who hurt cannot become hurt
and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities
disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others.
however there are few who's torment is only self-projected

i am one
an anathema that exists in silence

my past has been placed in a box full of secrets
along with the evidence of my self-mutilation
is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed?
this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me
because i would rather not feel a **** thing
than to be plagued by misery
from myself and the ones i love
however, emotions are not choices
and humans cannot be reprogrammed

it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words
are what my familiars take to heart
bodies speak such complex languages
and not everyone has the patience
or the attentiveness
to listen to anything other than a cry

and although i warn
and beg for warmth
i receive only glaciers
and memories of faces
overwritten with impassivity
what i would give
to reach into the darkest parts of my soul
and rip out this sorrow
that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche

in the depths of my worst memories
there is a wish
a want
a need
to take this heart of mine
and throw it to wolves
to be destroyed but desensitized
in my heart
is all my pity
my lust
my anger
my sadness
and sunshine darkened and gutted
so very long ago

i've seen oceans
commit atrocities
that have been washed away silently
i kept my mouth shut
and left the scenery
i swore i'd never return again

i regret.
i turn the clock back
i felt the waves come crashing in
i felt heavy hands
under my skin again
and i can't seem to shake the fear

i want to forget
but the water's clear
and all i can do is forgive
and i know
i shouldn't be so weak
because what good did it ever do in the end

i just want to forget
but i can't have that
because the water's clear and i can see myself again

i bite my tongue often
regularly grind my teeth
like butterflies, they slip out of your fingers
right as you caught them
they want you to bury it all beneath
and ignore what hollow ache lingers

hurtful words spew from a once-love's lips
my jaw aches
the ego stays intact
don't know where my bones will fit
live with my mistakes
the time has come to face the facts

misuse of vibrant words
wasted on the deaf
tell me, have you heard
about how my life is just a mess?

That’s why they call it falling in love
because at best it’s going to hurt
and at its worst
you end up splattered all over the concrete

nothing in our pockets but dirt we picked up along the way
she carries a locket with her
and it’s empty inside
she says she is waiting for the perfect moment
to fit between the fake gold
old souls in foolish bodies
smiling because it was all we had
he drinks in the woods after school
because the lesson plan never quite clicked
so he’s all sheets in the wind
as the time bomb ticks
one looks for the love she was
convinced she never deserved to give herself
they are all looking for the next fix of life
experiencing the world in ounces, milliliters, milligrams
shouting protests into the mirror
he is running away from reality
until he finds the life which suits him best
he flinches away from touch and contact
with eyes glimmering with eye drops
nothing in our pockets
but the baggage we picked up along the way

There was a long road
from the church to the farm house
and ten acres of land was never enough to disappear
but we tried our very best
the fields spanned out in wooden fence borders
until they met with dirt side roads
sheep, cows, and horses
and mud tracked jeans
we built dens in the woods
out of whatever we could scavenge
with wheat hanging limp from lips
we graduated to the days of the pretender
and started memorizing names like
RJ Reynolds and Phillip Morris
our fingers grew as yellow as our teeth
Tobacco Road Hobos
sticking up a thumb
with a Kamel Red pinched between index and middle
that's the gun metal blue smoke screen
rattling lungs in the morning
scorched throats at night
and a pair of mud tracked jeans
Kings of Tobacco Road