the seconds move quicker when you are hooked
up to the wires and tubes that coil themselves
across your body, snake-like figurines in rainbow
and silently the scent of the deceased creeps in
setting into the tiny hairs of my nose,
filtering in that chemical high, reminding this
could be the last time I see you
I'm not sure how to act or the words to speak
I'm no god, no fixer-upper, no angel wings to spread
and can't cure you, never could
so I creep away, selfishily, pushing you away


and that is the worst feeling in the world

And these words were buried underground,
in the deepest layers of dirt and sediment beneath a stone,
and pushing through the museoleum walls,
somehow all of my voice gets stunted by the amounting
years of self hatred and anxious shatter in my veints,
fearful of releasing any of these notions,
the thought of hurting you, perceiving you less than perfect,
but the expectations of how perfect I should be,
the restrictive nature of clipping off my ***** wings,
unknown damages that you have caused,
but I'm too fearful, cowering like a child to tell you any of this,

so I write,
I write to pull out the diseases you allowed me to contract,
I write because I'm too scared to hurt you,
I write because I know you didn't mean for any of this to happen,
and in someway, I think you need to write too.

the death of an artist,
slow, severe, and intimate,
it is the monthly crisis,
of wondering, questioning,
am I really an artist at all?

Swaying back and forth on the "L",
the screaming wheels of the subway against those tracks,
my head floats above my body waiting for some epiphany,
I take a gander at the girl with the flowers dancing across her dress,
she smiles like her head is floating too,
I look across the downtrodden riders,
and I ask myself the most important question of them all,
"What drugs are you on?",
because we are all on something,
I can tell by their eyes,
pharmeceutical hustles, illicit drug trade offs in the park,
I'm still feeling above my arms and legs,
they settle their like have grown roots around the seats and poles,
"So, tell me, what drugs are you on?"
Tell me your concoction,
so maybe I can get through this ride too.

writer, don't you get so weary eyed penning your same songs
of sadness and confusion? watching your talents diminish
as pretend to type the pain away, dissenting into madness,
a crazed affair with your bipolar medications pumped into you,
daily cries muffled into your pillow and no one to break you away,

writer, all your sad songs didn't amount to anything,
you died penniless and unknown,
and no one read a ******* thing,
i barely read your obituarary in the morning paper.

gravedigger goes deeper, flipping the dirt over his shoulder,
covering the stories and skin of someone passed over,

hiding behind a dying Willow tree, I'm staring at the sullen faces,
the rows of black cloth, all dressed tidy for the funeral,

I'm apprehensive about tip toeing to the forefront of the procession,
I'm dressed for this too, dismantled and shadowy figured,

wandering over towards the hole in the ground, peer deep down,
staring in there, watching my own face getting covered in dirt,

there is a barely a face to look back at me anymore,
my eyes grow wide, cannot process another one of these,

end scene and fade to black,
it's my funeral, again and again, baby.

sitting tall on my disheveled bed,
feeling uncomfortably numb,
seeking another high to dull the nothingness,
because it is that emptiness that will end us all,
finding religion in drugs,
seeing the birth of our Savior in a cloud of smoke,
sinking into the haze,
praying that this is all going to take the edge of,
am feeling fine,

my hands slowly rise to cover my face,
after the laughter dies down,
the demons show their faces
and everything is falling to pieces.