#rupture
I'll see you down the road
Wherever that may be
In this life or the next
May you find a better me
You said we'd be together
Forever in eternity
In a place of joy and love
Not this world of enmity
But I strayed into the darkness
The barren wilderness of my mind
A place where love cannot be found
To all the good things I was blind
Love faded inside me
I could not feel or give
That love that came so easy
When you really helped me live
Joy became a stranger
Love almost a foe
Misery was my bedfellow
I began to die, not grow
I saw you from a distance
With a smile upon your face
In my mind was envy
That you could live with grace
For you life seemed so easy
You took it in your stride
Appreciating what you had
While I could not abide
Trapped alone in darkness
I could not find a way
To the light that I so needed
To help me live each day
You were there before me
Hiding in plain sight
But I didn't think to ask you
To be my guiding light
But if I ever do break free
From depression's dark embrace
I hope that we can meet again
In a better time and place
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 11:28 PM UTC
He lay on the table,
his heart torn apart,
Fasted and hollow,
a soul from the start.
For eight long hours,
the surgeon would fight.
A scalpel in hand,
to restore what was right.
The Mayo scissors cut deep,
tearing through the skin.
Halsted forceps clenched,
pulling through sin.
A bypass to carry
what was broken inside,
but the heart, in silence,
began to collide.
Scream tore the air,
choking the breath,
crying for mercy,
for the end, for death.
With every stitch,
the room quaked and bled—
A love that could never
be healed or fed.
And when it was done,
the silence was worse.
The screaming had drowned
in an endless curse.
No suture could bind
what the heart couldn't bear.
A wound so deep,
not a soul could repair.
Jan 30, 2025
Jan 30, 2025 at 1:27 PM UTC
Tout explose,
Tout explose encore une fois.
Le rocher dégringole et accélère
Et mon coeur se fend en trois.
Tout éclate,
Tout éclate de lumière
Au frôlement de la divine soie,
Aux souvenirs que l'on enterre.
À l'approche d'une pente abrupte,
Que les milles nerfs défaillissent.
Le chemin juste toujours glisse
Au printemps et ses ruptures.
Tout s'échappe,
Tout s'échappe, surtout soi-même,
En mouvements de laisser-faire;
La volonté, un grand dilemme.
Tout s'impose,
Tout s'impose comme une claque;
N'ayant rien à faire pour diviser
La rivière, la mer et les lacs.
À l'approche des turbulences,
Les milles clin d'oeils sourissent;
Au sommet un tableau s’esquisse:
Du présent, le soleil à l'horizon.
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC
Hit not once but twice
Expecting me not to rise
Face bloodied and bruised
Heartbroken and confused
Words of hate won’t suffice
This has taken all my might
All alone in the middle of night
Thoughts of leaving creep
It’s time now to take that leap
Never again will that happen
This is my vessel; I’m the captain
Time has passed, I am no longer mad
I have flourished and refused to be sad
No regrets from the past
Although my choices did not last
I am stronger showing no shame
I pass no judgment nor hold any blame
The damage done was a cracked cheekbone
Still till this day is there and shown
I forgive that crazed juncture
My heart is still whole it didn’t rupture
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:39 AM UTC
she is sorry
for being so angry
sometimes
for being so intense
most times
for feeling too much
all the time
even with the most trivial of things
for always being ready to strike back
at the first sign of ache
and for always being on-the-move
so quick to pack her things
at the first sign of argument
for her soul is peppered with thorns
the sharp points turned inwards instead of out
and she can't help but yelp
even with the slightest of touch
her skin is still intact
but she is sure
yes she can feel it
there is a rupture within her
—and they just see them as bruises, nothing more
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 6:28 AM UTC
The doctor asks me why I'm here
That's a little open ended, isn't it?
I wish I were as quick, but I think
Too long and explain my case in full
Without any embellishment, I came
Because my back hurts like a mother
Pushing, can't move my leg and now
Painfully both enter and exit bed He
Nods as if he knows, he wants to know
The extensive list of all my meds, three
One, that gets me to the cold side of balance
One, that redistributes fat, hips and *******
One, that bottlenecks testosterone tighter
Than either full *** Gender reassignment?
He asks so I say yep. Duck Dynasty is on the
TV, in the corner above the room. The papers
Want to know if I'm claustrophobic, I check no.
That is before my first MRI. Before I'm loaded
Feet first. Now I know myself better, too.
The room is hot as he shares the results, bald
Headed sweat drips down a muscular man
Shy of forty, you've ruptured your disks. Three.
One on top of one on top of another. I guess
That in the end I just got too fat, that any extra
Burden collapsed my spine. I swear I do my best,
Avoid any extra psychological stress, but right
Now everyone is dying
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
I have this habit of starting wars with myself and sometimes in the end I don't know whether I've won or lost.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC