Is it fortune or fame?

No it’s not what she wants.

It’s the freak to whom you can talk.

She is me, and I am she.



Every move makes the sublime wind.

But, my baby’s at home,

And I walk away with pride.

I am not coming back for I made my mind.



They call it sin for I see it nothing but a win.

Every ****** takes me to a place I call home.

Every touch makes me want it even more.

So, see though this naked desire.

For it shed every cloth for the simple fire.



Fill me in with every drop

Take me away to another world.

Bring me down for I care for you not.

A million times before, I have it again.



I have the stuff that you want,

Look me deep in the eye

Another ***** tale you will bury.

For, there is nothing but the open sky.

What was it about omnipresence that appealed to me

so much that I destroyed myself -

one mountain at a time, one boundary at a time -

until the alarms stopped going off at breaches?

The magpies don't sing when they're sad, so what am I

when I laugh at myself for crying?

Who am I looking for when my pillows waft voiceless lullabies

from a bed half-empty? (half yours, half mine,

and I don't know which one's missing.)

What was it about hedonism that disgusted me

so much that my body rejected kindness -

every peace offering, every affectionate touch -

until it could no longer hold itself together?

Metaphors, like escaped prisoners, running for a life anywhere that isn't here,

anywhere that isn't me,

and I fold and break into myself

in muted, nondescript implosions.

Amy speaks to me sometimes,

reminds me of the losing game that I’m playing:

I’ve put in all my coins, gambled all I could call mine

and she shakes her head but keeps her silence.

There are no rules, she knows this

it’s all in or nothing,

and she watches me give everything.

I resurrect every ghost to make me bleed,

and tear open this skin for meaning,

but what is the value of hollowed bones and haunted dreams?

How many revolutions until your words lose your voice?

How many revolutions until the sun burns my hands away from your eyes

so you can finally see the light?

I lost the heart in a wager for yours

only to return with empty palms

and another phantom shackled in the mind

that patrols the lock-up, and the whip comes down

at every clink of ball-and-chain – no prisoner stands a chance to escape.

How odd that every lash on the prisoner,

you’ll find on my wrist, on my back, on my neck;

how odd that every movement is a punishment;

how odd that you don’t see the manacles

I’ve bound myself with.

Parasitic mind feeding on my grief
A soul seeking happiness in your relief
My inadequacy has forced me to bill
Your neverending healing, to my neverending peril

Poetic rationale takes in my gloom
Like leaves take in carbon, allowing flowers to bloom
To produce the only acid, my self pity, that can ****
To contain my hatred for, your healing my peril

With a storm of oncoming nought
Hunt for the eye, has my vision wrought
My soil of wisdom has gone sterile
As I celebrate your healing, I erode in my peril

is what i said to you then
not “i told you so”
this was not that kind of talk
not even “i told you,” really
because that’s not true
more like, “babe i promised you”

it’s a promise you don’t want
but it comes with me
it’s the price of admission
“promise me you’ll understand?”
“of course,” you say, “yes”
i wish you’d known what that meant

i didn’t really say it
it fell from the sky
little ribbons of our thoughts
which makes it hurt a bit more
i just want to speak
but today we’re too far

if we weren’t, i’d still be weak
too gun shy for words
too eager to move too fast
not understanding what you,
of all the people,
need to feel before it’s whole

but, here it is, as promised
promised i’d obsess
promised i’d be too needy
but you, too sweet, acquiesced
and i truly fear
you'll see the rot within me

and of course rot outside too
small scabs and scars, first
before long, they start to itch
fully expected,
i scratch at one, Ruby red
and it bursts the water of life

it’s not satisfying, though
another must go
and then i pick a few more
until the chair is covered
in drops of blood, sad
to be part of such a mess

i still don’t get why it’s me
but it’s nice it is
your face is hope, in a way
if the world put us together
it’s not a bad place
which reminds me to keep on

Today I feel worthless. No ideas are flowing; my attempts are sporadic and trivial, just some drivel I've eked out. Poetry...barely breathing , a few gasps every week or two, beyond that it's suffocation. I'm boring, mundane, my creativity drained away, and I'm not even sure when I pulled the plug. Maybe I should take a bath, plunge myself underwater, look up at the surface, search for a purpose. I want to cry, I won't, I can't. Slip into a self-loathing depression. Hit my head against the wall till one or the other breaks, at least then I might have something to fill the pages, those ******* pages.

i asked her, does it look the same?
she gave me that funny look she gets
whenever i say or do something a little dim
it's a mirror image for a reason she said

in the mirror i see muscles, and strength
hips a little too wide and fleshy
but still muscular,
strength all the way down

but when i reflect on myself,
no mirror necessary
it is never the same

i don't feel as strong as i could
don't look as sharp and sturdy as i could
those fleshy sides, too soft
for a battle-hardened brain
and turbulent thoughts

i need angles, i need straight lines
but there's nothing straight about me
and that's half the problem

and the other half
is that i hate the softness that lingers
but everybody else loves it
and i don't want to be warm and
able to be cuddled

i want hard edges
and nimble, spindly fingers;
when i play my chords
i want my bones to tap the strings

and when sadness sheathes itself within me
i want eyes as dry
as my eczema-bitten hands