curly toes and fingernails twice as thick
with old banana peel dried and crusted
jarred underneath
skin that tastes like plastic
a distraught girl with flowers growing
out of her head
eyes bleeding onto the pavement
but the heart is still beating
am I supposed to make sense
or are you
I said it’s time to go
but the doctor told me I’m fine
so I went to another
maybe five
and they all said the same thing
make sure you’re walking the dog
and that the dog’s not walking you
well maybe I want the dog to drag me
raw across the pavement
just know my hearts still beating

The flowing lava,
destroys,
burns,
hurts,
kills,
overwhelms,
turns my blood to molten magma,
and yet makes feel so alive.

                                                                             -storm-

The rawness of this world
Is often overwhelming
That’s why easier to find an escape
Rather then live in the moment

We are safe in our hiding place
But from there
we can only
watch life slip away

lately everything makes me wanna cry
so i'll fix it by going out and getting high
drive straight through 234 like russian roulette
to see if i'll get hit
i need another hit
and one turns into the whole bowl pack
i get dazzled in a daze of technicolor and emoticons
flying through my eyes like doves
i hope the black birds don't come
because i'm superstitious
throw salt over my shoulder
so satan doesn't come near
but what does that do when i have horns too
with a halo hanging on them like ring toss
i don't wanna do drugs anymore
i can hear my liver whimpering in the corner
begging to not get beat
but i use the belt again
and bash my head against the bathroom sink
sometimes i wish i died in my dad's bathroom
when i fainted from my prescription
funny how the legal drugs
almost always **** me
but i wake up alive after altering my mind
funny how peaceful heatstroke is:
losing sight
drifting sound
moving farther away like my ears are
detached from my head
last thing to dissipate is touch
until my fingertips turn blue
funny how burning off my fingerprints
wouldn't remove my identity
because i already wiped it out
with the ganj- and the grass
alternative medicine isn't healing
if it's being abused
and i'm so tired of feeling abused
even three years into the future
demons seeping through the cracks of my walls as i sleep
they haunt my dreams and flip them over into nightmares
but i will always go back to sleep
because i get to escape here but stay here
i want to astral project
and shoot my consciousness into the sky
instead of shooting myself in the head
i want to soar
and pick shooting stars out of the sky
and hold them in my hand with the same warmth as yours
i want to feel body heat on body heat
until i start to sweat and squirm
and you twitch in your sleep
i want to stare at space
instead of into it
when you can see the trauma
hollowing my eyes out
and caving my face in
from bashing it against the bathroom sink
and ripping my hair out
strand by strand
clump by clump
i would cut myself
but there's no spot on my body
concealable for when i feel better
i don't want to be reminded
every day of how i used to feel
because my mind already does that for me
i have good moments
so i tell myself after the bad passes, good will always come again

i am building a brick wall
in front of the mirror
because she's saying that when the bad passes, the good will come again
but what's the point when the bad comes back
an uninvolved father
stopping by every now and then
to use the tv
with the sound off and the static on
dissolving into the couch
like the lysergic odyssey melting on my tongue
absorbed by the grayscale of unhappiness
but i'll never say depression
because i'm scared of going back to therapy
backwards progress is not progress in my head, it's failure
maybe that's why i'm scared to go sober
because i'll always relapse

Why Do i Feel Guilty about
deleting my drafts or my hidden poems,
It feels like deleting a part of me
that i will never find again.

And even more Guilty bout calling my writings as poems,
because they don't rhyme or have any pattern,
They are not wrapped in the most beautiful way.
Just raw untouched thoughts.

who really knows
who really understands
how is it true
or not
does the homeless person know what time it is
did the ant you stepped on feel anything
the sunset shared by millions across the globe, was it appreciated
was it valued
desert winds, stirring up the ancient sands, is it admired
is it honored
waters in the clouds, falling with raw force to the earth, is it glorified
is it
how do you know
how do you know

Brian Hill - 2020 # 168

Burning beneath the ice,
bubbling effervescence,
torment it bears in violet,
silent as the owl lies the truth,
in the depths of the unknown soul.
Plead it to speak,
it stays quite.
Hope it comes out,
it stays invisible.
You have to befriend it,
for it is a dominance most uncooperative.
                                                                             -storm-