Call me stricken
by her
          my favorite color.

I want to fill my ears with static
to give my thoughts some room to move
and my eyes monochromatic
with an artistic side to prove


She writes
like shes giving
Noah Webster a *******,
her labyrinthine constructions
of consonants and vowels,
leading in circles
obliterating disbelief,
and I
          AM

the words.


She tastes like ***
and nostalgia
nauseating my pages,
wearing thin over keystrokes,
repetition,
               the mother of decrepitude
so my muse
               decimates my thoughts
          one in ten
     one in ten
one in ten
*CRACK

people ask me what i
believe in all the time.
maybe god or buddhism or
maybe even poems that
rhyme.
but i believe in
the universe and
the art that surrounds me
so,
there is a black hole in the
middle
that not many people
do know.
i believe in art
and the smiles on
her face,
i also fall for her
and her un denying
grace.
i believe in books
wether fiction or
not,
i believe in the facts that
tell me the sun is
hot.
I've heard that there isn't
any room for God in
science,
but maybe there is if
you show some
appliance.
and the stars that shine
above,
are hydrogen gases that push and
shove.

the middle of our galaxy is
a massive black hole,
not even light can escape,
nothing ever whole.
you see the parts of me,
and you think, "oh shes so fine!"
but deep inside of me is
that black hole heart  of
mine.

i sit here and overdose in my imagination for the fifth time today
too poor to **** myself with a pharmaceutical fantasy no pain just sleep
it's a matter of time before i'm found swinging in my basement necrotic windchime
i'm not so much a poet as a sad kid rambling who can only write inebriated
this one time life thing is getting me sick and i just don't..
**** me i thought i was stronger than this yet years with a **** job
no girl and 5 weeks a night of left hand ******* while i choke down
another bottle bottle bottled my emotions in a seven dollar anesthetic
i've been romanticizing a wished for **** addiction at least that would be an
excuse for why i'm a wasted wasting waste of life doomed to insecurity
i can't even remember half the words i learned in school
you're probably sick of my self loathing and every poem i write is
just another narcissistic cry for help because i'm to proud to ball up and cry
don't even bother this time i don't want your reason for why i can't top myself
kick my bucket, burn my farm, pluck out my eyes and puke till i die
i'm ******* done i'm just too tired to try
to all those girls i never kissed - i love you
to all those ******* i never hit - i love you
to that boy that i might have found myself with - i love you
to my best best best friends the few that i have - i love you
i was never comfortable in my skin
maybe i'll  be comfortable in my grave