Broken spirit
Its venom leaks out
Every word is a storm
Every silence is cold
In the end
Not every day is scheduled to be the same
Our hearts are just puppets in a cruel game of emotions
Maybe it's just a lost love
Gentle dirt sent from above
But the wound was as deep as a flying bullet
To see blood—some people enjoy it
But patience remains my quiet guide
Let the world tempt you, let suffering remain
I will wear defeat
My wounds are like a crown
Loss of the power that won't give up

My soul is a lacuna
In these moments of silence
There’s an empty void.
In this river of regret
It’s Hollow dark and cold.

Nothing left but bitter emptiness
I’ll still long for your touch
To hear the sound of your voice
And I don’t want to forget
Or Learn to live with the pain

These demons are relentless
And driving me insane
But If you want the leave
Don’t let me stand in your way

But Please don’t call me a fool
If I ask you stay
Let them think what they want
I don’t care what what they say

I’ll be lost and scared
In the midnight rain
If you go away
You may as well take the sun away

there’s an emptiness that
consumes the world,
like a newborn babe does her
mother’s *******:
it needs the force of life -
to become a weapon for death;
as it kills the light switch  
in the warehouse of hope;
as the sound of darkness
blinds even the bats;
as the echoes of piousness sink
to turn lawless mercenaries;
as the lantern flickers off
to the heaving of hedonism
that spawns in the void -
dark, and unconquerable.

until someone strikes a match.

Once upon a time I visited Hades
Just for a week, something like that.
I don't quite remember how I found the way down.
And I was supposed to be a prisoner, of course.
No one wants to be confined. I didn't.

But I was fed. Reassured, I signed the forms, still woozy,
and frankly then I was somewhat ignored
but there is so much unexpected liberty in captivity
if it's the cage you yourself have chosen
and that made all the difference. So I rested.

I planted grains there, buckwheat, barley, arborio
knowing I'd return to spring soon, also knowing now
that hell is temporary, that it just happens sometimes.
That my mind is sometimes lost and found again
like a train of thought, or an acquaintance's name.

And then I left. I've been back to the underworld
here and there throughout the years,
when I needed or wanted to visit with my demons.
But I don't need to stay- I just harvest what I've been growing,
nourish myself, rest a bit, replant, wave to Hades. And go home.

I did not stop writing but I swallowed each word whole
Without remark, buried where I could not read them
Or myself. I could not stop having feelings
But I hid them away- spirited far- speechless
They spoke anyway. I tried to die. I did not.

I can't blame you, or anybody specifically
but I was afraid of what I was made of.
The thing that was growing- it was me,
wildly me, wild anima. Whirling and warming,
I threatened to metastasize. But I did not.

I only swelled and grew and hurt, really tried hard
to find a window, to make space, and a home.
Terrified the author and editor- no one will buy this.
And so I killed that thing. I cut it out, and discarded it.
No one noticed. The parade moved on. I did not.

I hid like a wounded fox. I turned myself inside out
away from light, from sound, and love, and trust
I erased memories, wrote better endings, kept it easy
And this suited many, but never myself. Because
You can't actually **** what grows. I did not.

The only reward you get for your resilience
Is more tests of your mettle
Everyone you care about will lean on you
Because you can take it
Can't you?
You are bleeding out
Every deed done
Another cut
More blood spilled
You can save everyone
Except for yourself
It's a fitting death
Drowning in a pool of your own blood
Every loved one is another blade
Stained in crimson

i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.

she was a good wife:
beautiful, honest, kind, soft -
just like her silence.

Indigenous citizen
struggling to stay civilized
amidst
monolithic visages,
stone-faced and stoic witnesses;
overhead,
gargoyles grin—
hideous grimaces
guarding ever vigilant.

Inhospitable city grid
dimly lit,
rain's residual liquid
slicks
gritty asphalt
glistened,
blacktop igneous
pavement glittering–
rigid obsidian.

Hidden within this vision
visits
solitude, unsolicited–
loneliness exhibited,
never fitting in;
island imprisonment
as bridges begin
quivering
above stygian rivers grim,
abysmal reflections glint,
swimming in viridian.

Water's brim risen
to vertiginous limits
I see
flitting images
of cataclysmic collision with
frigidness
obliterating to oblivion.

A dismal wish
reminded by
a grisly glimpse
of figments vivid since
residual shiver imprints
from winter's winds
whipping shins
and thinning skin;
I cringe, wither, wince,
my eyelids squint–
but I still live, so
no longer motionless
my frostbitten digits grip,
limbs never given in
to blizzard's pins
or crystalline prisms–
I walk,
despite icy splinters
and misery digging in
my ambition wins.