don't waste your breath
telling me to get better, talk dirty to me
don't hold your breath
hoping i try to help myself.
if you're going to hold my neck
hold it a lot tighter than that,
don't forget to push down
on my windpipe with your palm,
we're wrapped up in these bedsheets
because i want you to hurt me.
i want to see the rope burn on my wrists glisten
where it's begun to tear away at my flesh
and i like to feel real tangible knots
when i'm tied up in self loathing.
i struggle to find the line between
lovesick and depressed or
being a masochist. what's the big difference.
either way i wake up with bruised
blue lips and oxygen deprivation,
and fresh linens wet with singeing liquids,
and a pain in my stomach or lungs that means
i'm still breathing slightly.
i wanted you to kill me.
Propelled by what?
A forces driving
To cliffs edge
Thinking of something
He could never commit
However, sadly the mind
Breaks every now and then
To release a flood?
To retrieve releif?
Or to pass a test?
But we never get any answers
For after broken
The mind is gone
Orginal thought flies
Far from the mess
It enabled to prosper
Left we are
With the mans body
Hallowed out by attempt
His answers he speaks
Saying only one thing
"Never allow a series of events"
"To spiral to such a low as mine"
"To cliffs I conquerd"
"To chasms I fell"
"All for a red sunset"
No one had the heart to tell him
The sun does not shine at night...
You would gently manipulate her.
You would secretly use her.
You would have a strategy for her every move, a plan for anything she'd do.
Her weakness became your endeavor.
You dehydrated her soul.
You made her suffer just so that you could strive.
You were slowly killing her.
Screw you mankind, screw you.
Do you like it much
killing every day,
do you really think
they'll pay you on death?
Do you enjoy
living on the war,
don't you seek for peace
happiness and bliss?
There's always a way,
even more than one,
like there's more than one book
to open a mind.
There's more than one God
to find and to love.
There's always a way,
if seems like there's none.
Can I touch your hand?
Can I hug you, please?
Don't be scared, I know,
I know how you feel.
Poem written shortly after learning from the news about today's Taliban suicide bomb attack on Afghan forces which killed 13.
From war to war torn
The countryside lay
Another boy worn
From the front lines
His head molded grass
Cold from the day
And that gray pass
Where many men die
His fathers sound
Thrown from rampart
Flung to the ground
"Father how could you?"
The lame echo
fell in lieu of
Yet across the sea
Past no mans land
A body left be
By loving hands
Hole in an old head
Red mixed with green
A piece of lead
Found its owner
The boys weakened flame
Died by old hands
Gripping the same
Righteous, gray gun
That gun is buried
Beside that man
The last bullet
Killed the killer
Yet where is the blame?
On one or both?
They died the same
With fatherly love
My back on the ground, I wonder if they are jealous of us
With our limbs, we can move around
With statures fated into static, they can only watch
To stand still and tall – to exhale the air we breathe;
Helpless when cut down,
Screams silent when we take their homes, when we trample their kind –
Are they jealous of us,
that we can speak and walk and protect our own?
Yet is there really something to be jealous of
When voices are used to injure –
to implant thoughts in minds that can spur deadly actions;
When the ability to protect is used only for our own skin –
to turn a blind eye to things that don't affect us directly (and seek comfort in its blissful ignorance);
When havoc is wreaked with every step we take – and be so unaware of it?
Have we gone tired of killing those who are sessile – of those who don't fight back that we have turned to each other?
Are we living in a world where those who aren't human are more humanlike?
Is this what humanity is all reduced to now – so preoccupied with trying to kill one another that we fail to notice the larger picture –
that we don't have to kill him, her, or them,
because when we cut them down all those years ago,
we have already killed ourselves?
In the background, they are silent but laughing. Fools, they think as we swing our swords around like toothpicks — oblivious to the groans the ground is letting.
I think so too.
From all the things I'm running from,
they are killing me,
designed to test me.
Maybe it's the temper or the patient,
Whether to quit now or then,
But for as long as I know,
The matter of time,
Is always the same,
And in another part of universe,
to say the time is up,
When Donald Trump opened the floodgates last year,
by basing his campaign on paranoid fear;
By embracing the zealots, the hawks, the alt-right,
he emboldened the racists to take up his fight.
When Donald Trump barks and belittles and bellows,
he ends up with strange and revolting bedfellows,
who think, 'cause they're white they can fight and can kill
which, with horror, we witnessed there in Charlottesville.
When Donald Trump won't quickly, strongly condemn
the racists and nazis, he's standing with them.
When he's vague, non-committal, or responds with delay,
he's disgusting, pathetic, and as worthless as they.
Embers burn in a flash of light
Flying through the night
Flamboyant flames dancing
Dancing, it's the demon
The demon who follows me
Stares at me with its intense eyes
Flailing it's arms, taunting me
Taunting me in a provoking manner
Shoving me reaching
Holding me up by my shirt
My chest, infecting my lungs
Gripping me so tightly in its arms
Escape, I must escape I must
I must fight it
Quietly, without a word nor cry
Glaring intensely, infuriating
Fighting a battle that will go unsaid
Untold, unheard of, a tale with no writing
Battling and scarring each other
Determined to win, to defeat
We are determined to kill
One must die for the other to live
To live and grow, for our beauty to show
We must fight.
We must fight without sound
Without word of mouth nor page
Fight till one is gone
Kill so one can leave