The Problem with breaking your heart
is that you can't let it heal to someone else's frame.

will you still
love me

when i choose
the comfort
of blades

instead of your arms?

In this room alone, piled with wishbones
Each social high on golden throne
Feel the breeze with shaking knees
Empty space is all I see
Though triggered by the sadness
Each glory yell to madness
Tells tales of the past enough
To incite the desert dreams

While drones buzz by like angry bees
A hornet's nest is waiting
To capture each like saws to trees
A story worth creating
Through the fairy dance I'm singing
Each brazen glance is seeming
A little less like added stress
To describe this desert feeling

Though peacefulness may hide itself
In shadowed, dripping caverns
A stalagmite of good fortune
In the cheers of beers in taverns
Behind each whisper of enchantment
Comes a desire for life enhancement
But not before the felled tree lore
Is recounted by fire-lit lanterns

We are complex creatures
And we've created a
Complex society
In which our humanity
Is both provoked
And utterly stifled.

My pencils are breaking-
Pens have spilled too much ink
But at least I'm still writing.
The flannel I have,
Smuggling collarbones
From chilly apartment-
I've worn that all week.
There's a cigarette burn
In one sleeve,
The buttons have come unhinged
During midnight runs to the corner
For cheap chocolate
And cigarettes.
Ramen boils
To salt my appetite.
But at least I'm still writing.
I leap from place to place,
Eyeing hoods passing by,
And I imagine guns tucked away.
The sink leaks,
There's not enough sun.
I'm high on debt
And college school books
Rot in the corner.
I guess my degree
Has gone putrid too.
My life's gone dingy and dark,
Suffocated by polluted winter.
Dark circles
Tell stories
Dreams can't remember.
But ******* at least I'm still writing.