poetry is dead
which is to say

god is dead
which is to say

mankind is alive
which is to say

hello
which is to say

goodbye.
each atom splitting like

meat cleaver to skull,
teeth to wishbone.

tongue wrapped around firework
wrapped around bleeding bullet heart.

i want him to tell me
i taste like milk and honey.

like rose petal wine,
like those organic strawberries my father refuses to buy.

i want him to tell me
i feel like shrapnel.

like serpent skin,
like sand paper scrape.

i want him to tell me
loving me is hard

which is to say
i want him to tell me the truth.

the truth is dead
which is to say

‘i love you’
which is to say

'you taste like gunpowder’
which is to say

'i’d go to war for you’
which is to say

'wake up,
poetry is dead.’

I wish upon a shooting star,
That this pain won't go too far.

Pro-****?
I hope you're pro-behind bars too cause that's where you're going.

Heartless is something I'd be without this Heart
But peaceful too because I'd be free of this Hurt

The storm has passed. Its     surrender was swift
as chalk wiped away     from a wet, slate board.

What haunts the hollow     hallway of dark hours
fails again. A friend,     not fear, grips me.

The more I mean it     the more my will melts,
with resolute strength,     square's into circles.