Light of my life,
The slings and arrows
Of outrageous fortune
Bloom a rose
In the deeps of my heart.

And so I came forth
But could not behold the stars.
The slings and arrows,
They trespassed upon my thoughts.

And I cried that I came
To this great stage of fools,
But it echoed loudly within me
Because I am hollow at the core.

That outward existence which conforms,
This inward life which questions
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece of.  

I don't exactly know
What I mean by that,
But I mean it.

You are my Dante, you are my Vergil, you are my Beatrice, you are my devil. You are the spineless and endless tortured souls of men and woman who form horizons that never seem to end. You are the hung bodies in the trees of death, you are Cleopatra and Antony. In that never ending tornado of lust, cursed to spin and spin, conjoined in cursed love. You are the undeserving unborn who are tortured before they've ever even breathed dear life.

And I, I am only another accursed undead.

I don't know how it came to be
To have so many holes in me
But here I cry
By and by
Bleeding from the heart
Where so many rivers start.

I cannot explain
This inexorable pain
As I cross this river Styx
Wondering how I'd come to this
But here I am
****** and Dammed
Crying cold tears
Wondering what fate nears.

I remain here with the ferryman
Wondering how I was ever a merry man.
Crying my tears of blood
Just as any man would.
Touched so high in grace
****** for all my race.
So burning is this torment
Yet cold, silent, and dormant.

But I am no betrayer.         No, Not yet
No sin increases my fare

Charon does not bring me to that gate
But rather back home to finish my fate.
For I am not dead
And it is not living that I dread.
I have only been shown this torture
So I may avoid it in future.
I have no place in that weeping forest
Just as Dante, I was but a tourist.
But so my sorrow deep and cold
Should not permeate into my old
But rather it shall remain
a past pain.

O I shall remember
these such foul members
But it is that which makes me
Not breaks me.
These are that which become me
For I shall not succumb to these.
And so these folds shall make me
stronger
Till I feels these holes,
These rivers in my heart,
These tears of blood,
This passing of the laurel,
These faults within my ore,
No longer.

I walk closer to these cold gates,
No Virgil to help me get this far,
Only sin along the way.
"You shall not enter," he says.
I knew this would come of me,
But how did I get this far
Along in my journey only
To be rejected the first time around?
Did I not pray to see my own
Beatrice enough to seek redemption?
I journey all night through the
Dark wood only to go
The lonesome way I came.
I hope the place beneath my feet
Will take me through their gates,
I couldn't stand another moment
In between two worlds without
The one he'd call Beatrice by my side.

They say college is the best time of your life,
But dante's seventh circle, seems serene
A paradise for my spring break, free from this agony.

I find myself choking on my beliefs,
Torn from my heart, and jammed back down my throat;
By people who praise diversity of ideas, but only listen to their own words.

My education has been one of hate,
Hated for my ideas on how to help others,
Just because I wasn't of the same mind.

I can't escape myself, alone, in a sea of self loathing
Drowning in underhanded insults and ostrification,
Gasping for air, refusing to turn blue

My confidence in being loved has been completely shattered,
Afraid of the testosterone that makes me who I am,
My very sexuality offensive and toxic.

I look in the mirror seeing a freak,
Someone undeserving of breath,
And in these, the best years of my life.

My mind resembles something like
a rabid VCR—baring its teeth,
foaming, unapologetic, at the mouth,
rewinding and replaying and repeating
all of the small cuts of two people
I swear I used to know and love.
Rerunning a patchwork reel of the scenes
I can stand to remember—
(which is all of them when I’m feeling
particularly masochistic).
Rhythmic static travels from
top to bottom of my mind’s eye—
a familiar flaw, cracking and popping
as the picture struggles to come clear.
I try to stop it—all of it.
Rip plug from outlet—
throw this snarling archaic beast
against some unsuspecting wall.
But it’s made in the good ol’ US of A
and runs on something
a bit more complicated than
any energy they can send me a bill for.
So I'm stuck
in this cyclical hell,
where there is no fresh air,
and the only oxygen I can get
has to be ****** through
a barely functioning dollar store crazy straw.
And, really, my only anger is directed at Dante
for not including this part
in his little ditty about the Inferno.
I swear I’d take
trying and failing
to escape a river of boiling blood
over whatever it is that causes me
to create a dramatic VCR metaphor
any day.

Am I finally at the entrance?

where according to hearsay;  
no one dared to enter?
no one ever came back?
no one can escape?

Is this the dark wood?
where man has lost and lost his path?
where man face his fears and damns his past?
Is this the dark wood if I may ask?

If it be so I dare pray
that light may shine and show my way
It is cold and at the same time blazing hot
this may be a delusion or confusion

If it be so I dare pray
that I may be let and live again
I have learned my lessons
I shall never return and turn my back again

Bare that hell, oh Dante's child,
as a crown. Let the flames dance
on your fingertips as you build
your kingdom on ancient ruins.
Light a cigarette and watch the
smoke rise and pollute the
heavens above, the angels
choking on their halos.
When the monsters knock
welcome them with open arms,
streched smiles, and embrace
the beast of your own.  
Scream of the riots, my dear
because you are not the fallen,

*you are reborn.