Tragedy isn't even very tragic anymore

I know I’m a terrible person
Trust me, I have to live with myself.

Blah Blah Blah

Blah Blah

Blah Blah Blah Blah

drooling

over the object

of your belief structure

blah blah blah

your coolness

is unheatable

is celebrated with a call through tin can phones
connected by yarn-                           to us. He sends warm wishes and warnings, slurred together as                spirits replace blood. Our kiss was nine rings around the tin can ago,      under a streetlamp where you've unveiled a pool of               Acacias and shamrocks.

We are crafted of cement chips from the streets we once sauntered.
We grasp for one another's hands on playground equipment,
stomachs full of one-dollar cinnamon rolls from Jewel-Osco,
cowering from the sun like children in a blanket fort.

we are safe                 when we are together              we are invincible

There will always be splinters of us. My name
is spelled out where the light meets the street  –
a balmy, January sunset           birthing,
                                                                ­      crawling to a dry.

I am but the seed
of a fruit all finished up,
with all my wisdom eaten away
left with nothing but the husk
of what I used to be
so bury me in the dirt
with the hope that I will grow
once again into a tree
ripe with glory and promise.

Tomorrow held such promises
then the next day came
and broke all of them.

Do I dive to the ocean floor
or seek the edge of the world?
And will this heart of gold
sink or float?
I tell myself
with my blood as my ink,
I have my soul to keep;
now I’m at the tip of the quill
but the slate’s wiped clean.
When there’s nothing left
but the other side,
is there nothing else to do
but go there?

Do you still feel sorry
for your loss
everytime I cross your mind?

Do you still have grief
over my death
because I
am your unfinished business?

Do you still get the creeps
everytime you thought
you saw the ghost of me
when it was just your regrets
coming to life
to haunt you again?

Do you still visit
my tombstone
and mourn over the carvings
that my name made
on the stone walls of your heart?

Do you still want to dig me
out of my grave in your memory
and wish I had a proper funeral
instead of being buried
when I still lived
after you tried to **** me?

Because I do.

How to be silenced
with your own words?
Write in someone else's voice.

Looking at a computer screen
but seeing blue skies;
brain frying in radiation,
body floating in the open ocean.
Heels on concrete,
grass between toes.
Pounding on computer keys,
pricking on cactus spines.
Thinking of brand conversion
but dreaming of the Grand Canyon.
Impersonating relevance,
giving my rhymes a rest.
A fool for freedom
but a tool for currency.