Blood clotted tissues,

Full of blood

clotted

tissue,

I find

myself

waiting,

In the

waiting room....

Again.

I have a splinter in my heart
right in the middle point between the left atrium and the right ventricle.

A little husk of a beechtree seed
landed on the fragment of wood that now lives within me
and it cannot be removed or I will bleed all over and dry out.

It’s putting down roots on my cardial muscle tissue
one day it will break free, reaching for the stars.

Depression…
Where every shirt sleeve becomes a tissue

Freezing Moon* by the stereo
and as a bed poet
I'm takin' a ****.

Did you know about that guy
who slit his wrist… on this? she says.
No; Martha, Jessica, Julia: but still…

Here, alone, with the MacBook Air
- or was it Pro? Nevertheless,
an useless tool for worthless ****.

****, Pr0n, Pony - *******.

Here, alone, I and only I writes with the capital I.
And after the **** has gone
it feeds the air with oriental glams of leprosy:

and after a long working day I am not afraid,
watching its face, as I'm flushing it in the toilet
just like all the *******' poetries @ Home-Poetry.

Gently I watch from the dark
Pushing up a thin tissue front
Into the harsh light.
It wavers in the breeze, yes,
But let's through some honeyed light
Enough to twine my fingers through
And pour into me with life
My sheild from the burning,
Men with claws scratch, boring holes
That burn before my tissue can close,
And a sore, stinging soul
But the dark will wash it away
With tears and hope,
Innocence before it opens its eyes
To the light.