Cut the flesh upwards,
Bend your bone cot.
Be aware of everything,
Soul scissors don’t stop...
Our oceans stay so iron sweet,
And this will never change...
Our corrector eye lens cameras stay in range, far...
Our mystery.
Messy makeup burnt.
We’re not perfect but we are what we learn...
And this is where we start, from the pain beauty curves and carves a new art...

Life’s just a riddle that none of us can answer
we’ve got some leads, we’ve got some clues.
Still the answer eats alive like a cancer,
and the treatment is something I’m like to refuse.

It was raining
as always in September.
They were complaining
about what; I don’t remember.
Reputation staining,
or maybe full dismember.
In need of some training
or my tempers need to be tempered.

It’s true you can never go back home,
being on your own doesn’t need to mean being alone.
You can gift the people silver, gold and chrome
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.

Life’s just a puzzle that’s missing a piece;
you can try your hardest to fit in another,
or you can accept it and leave the picture incomplete,
and spend the rest of your time left to be frustrated and suffer.

It was a cold December,
some would say you could smell the ice.
I only seem to remember,
the nerve of those celebrating, bleedin’ Christ.
Start a fire but end up with embers
I think a spark or light would be nice.
So I go in search of vendors
but they’re charging far too high of a price.

The nightmare had a nightmare of its own
never learned to share even though it’s full grown.
You can gift people blankets and tapestries that you’ve sewn,
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.

Life is like a flower
it blooms out until it drops.
Each day hour after hour,
until time’s ticking then stops.
For treasure I still scour
moving so fast my steps are hops,
and the floors filthy; needs a shower
but I think I’ve broken the brooms and mops.

It’s true you can never go back home,
the path is covered by weeds and stone,
and to each town and city you roam
there will be those who ask how to skin a bone.

They call them the Kings of Bones,
torching the  villages and the homes.
Saying they’re done with the ******* and moans
they’re expected to hear when upon their thrones.

So tell me is a battlefield even real
if it isn’t littered in blood, limbs and steel?
The bone kings only receive their end of the deal
if they offer up those who support them for the next meal.

So with scraped and ****** knees,
how are they to pray or please?
If our heads are always bent,
does worship even hold any sentiment?

So tell me is it really a done deal,
just like in guns, germs and steel?
The bone kings take what they want, act as they feel.
They tear all apart and neglect to place a seal.

They’re all too busy reading out of date scripture
that they’re all missing the blatantly clear picture;
Hell is empty as the devils walk the earth.
Everyone wants to rule the world,
trade gold for diamond and diamond for pearl;
doesn’t realize the reverse of worth.

Now they’re wearing collarbones around their neck,
and accessorizing every vertebrae as a ring.
Assuming this cruelty grants them respect,
really at best it’s just straight vulgarity.

But each King stands alone,
forever isolated and on their own.
So they polish a fresh bone
just to add to their skeletal throne.

i linger in the tub
long after the heat has left
i wait until it chills my bones
shivers down my spine
i linger in the tub tonight
bubbles sparsely sit on the surface
my pain is slowly unearthing
an iceberg, deeper than expected
an iceberg, how much i’ve been neglected
an iceberg, dive into my tempest
an iceberg, the weight of deflection

i’d step on your neck at the best of times but
i wish you the best of luck with the rest of your life
break a leg, hit your head, break every bone in your body
though i hope you make it out alive because i’d hate to feel sorry
i hope roses by your bedside would suffice for a goodbye
i hope we never have to speak for the rest of your long life
break a leg

I need the rain.

Hard,
broken,
dessicated limbs hang
low and heavy
like twin pendulums
of shattered lead.

I need the storm

Cold,
cracking,
drained roots coil
notted and gnarled
like a cage
of sun bleached bone.

I need the flood.

Dark,
engulfing,
suffocated leaves wither
rusted and dying
like an endlessness
of time-ground sand.

I need the void.

The poetry
Claws at my rib cage
Like it’s a real cage.
Like it’s minimum wage
Come to pay up, pay a price.
It 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 like blood
Or bone.
It blooms like a flower
Then crashes like stone.
It flows out of my lips
Like music’s own bile—
Life’s a trial by fire
But this is fire by trial.

plenty of phrases, soaked through the bone
eyelashes moving with eyeballs closed
it’s almost halloween
it’s almost time to party
for our souls
for our bones
for our skeletons we push inside our closets, we have a place to hide, don’t we?
but loneliness is an illness i would rather contend with
it’s familiar and frost-bite warm
i should’ve been warned
about “love” and hasty infatuation
these are my bones
creaky and unknown
they are alone
beside these muscles
that i keep so i
can convince myself i’m fine
beneath a cloak of darkness, of fear
you shouldn’t come to me
you shouldn’t dare
pack a suitcase full of your organs
don’t come to my part of this ghost town
let’s hide our skeletons away, so no one sees, so no one stays
to love us
we don’t deserve it
it’s almost halloween
and i will try to be me
behind a cave
carved makeup on my face
i will try to keep a smile
i will try to leave this denial
i will heat my body up with something besides the hesitation
this presentation, i will perform
with the skeleton in my room
that hides during storms
that is afraid of collecting friends like memories
someone take these bones from
me