he's a two ****** drinker. pleads that maybe a bit more money would subdue him, a bit more leisure, a bit more love.
every sunday in secret he kneels at the pew, screaming at the alter "if only"
if only his mother never left, maybe things wouldn't be as they are. maybe he wouldn't wake up monday morning with the wood residue underneath his finger nails, the bitter after taste of wine on his tongue and the similar symbolic stain ringing in his head.
only resemblance of religion he's ever practiced, the only proof he's shouting at god for answers too.
but oh, the nights he drowns himself in liquor are the nights he said god responded once before. claims he heard his voice... he's all shaky hands now, blood shot eyes, spitting with every word... it goes unnoticed.
we never fully learn the meaning of being lifeless until we are, until we feel the bones nearing skin & the flesh between diminishing, until our marrow is blackening at a parallel rate to that of our heart,  until we've convinced ourselves the breath felt on the small of our neck is indeed god, is indeed death, it's then that we realize it wouldn't be so bad after all in the after life, if any

my brain is dousing itself with kerosene, tempting thoughts taking
form of unlit matches,
yet to spark
how do i learn the art of
living under extradited energy of this fire?
the elementals of exhaustion, oh,
how it rests as the black hole in the back
of your head.
it smells like last spring break, you know,
crazed.
i began carving
myself into something other,
you began eating less and
vomiting more.  
i wanted to believe in god,
waking up at 12pm on a sunday to
slug the nearest bottle of red, maybe,
it'll get me closer, maybe,
maybe i'll taste him
i'll become so numb i'll start to believe
i'm living for a purpose,
that theres some drawn-up reason for
my little existence,
opening old wounds or
leaving without closing any doors, any at all,
touching stove tops,
praying to 'anyone' that this is already hell, that this has
gotta be the worse, this can't
get worse,
punching brick walls to break knuckles, only to watch poems fall out,
heaving at the sight of anything and
laughing when remembering everyone leaves, even 'dad,'
shaking hands with the reflection in the mirror, the person you don't want to be, the person you're claiming 'too toxic,'
the person you're afraid to see again

I feel the pressure to create bearing down on my skull like a claw hammer. I am not a conquest. And no, I will not be your conquest (yes, you). I am me: flawed and imperfect but somehow still here. Fighting through the misery with Marlboros and earl grey. Bone broke, broken bones; a metaphor for broken imagery, a torn imagination soaked in ***** and blood. Would you still love me if I threw myself down a flight of stairs? Two for one pain, buy one dose, get one free. Ragged breathing, lace collars, four inch pumps and a plastered on lipstick smile.

Take me, Satan, for I have sinned.
I fell down on the job, fell down on my sword
but with no real purpose or cause. A martyr
for the sake of martyrdom is as useful as a
parka in Mexico.

Slit my wrists with a freeform kiss.
Cracked teeth, cracked skull, saltine crackers.
Counting calories, skipping meals.  
Did it hurt to ascend from hell, and
how did you wash away
the grime?

I want to believe that you love me
but the world is unkind.
I need a shot of reassurance like a shot of
eighteen year old scotch, neat.

Rapid fire rejection, thunderstorms
of doubt. **** me with a smile. Rebuild
my psyche, brick by brick. Mortar me,
babe, and I'll adore you for it.

Melt into my mind and live there,
the mice who currently occupy
the quarters are hungry for
touch.

Ride my metaphor like
a throbbing **** longing for
release; please, release me.

"...I suppose I simply have a great mistrust for institutions, which the people, for whom they were built, cannot resist or otherwise transcend without dire socioeconomic repercussions.."

One, willing to change,
experiences many lives
before their mortal shell
ceases to function.

A coward, however,
experiences perhaps one.

I can create your world
I can even destroy it all
I’m not a reckless man
Nor someone wants to fall

I just want to live a life
Where your light is the call
Where happiness is the pillar
And your love is the whole

Abdullah Ayyash
April 08th, 2014

When you're little, you look up to your father;
A man who's always there for his little daughter.
He supposed to be there to dance and play,
and, maybe, even sing with you all day.
Your dad is the man to push you on the swings,
so high you feel like you have wings.

My father always had the whitest smile,
just like my dress will be when I walk down the aisle.
He always put his hands on his hips,
and flashed a smile yet not on his lips.
His eyes would twinkle when they met mine,
no matter the situation, he make you laugh every time.

My fantasy world was shattered at age five,
when my father stopped breathing and wasn't alive.
My mom cried and our family shared hugs,
yet there's still something on my heart that tugs.
That constant reminder of what my life was,
some people say it hurts, and I'll tell you it does.

But don't feel too bad, my life is truly great;
I promise this experience didn't fill me full of hate.
I love my dad and my step-father too,
some people say, "That's impossible to do".
So my life continues and he's still dearly, I miss,
How I said goodbye -- it was with a kiss.