The voices seem to roar
as a wave of angst
worries to be needle ridden highways
on a side turn on sanity
I wonder if beer can taste of saliva
or we simply kiss these bottles as if they are our lovers
and mishappens escapade and our tongues lie
like rogues and knaves reconnaissance of a time
where love was kept on a locket
in a locker of a suicide note
I wonder if smiles are a backyard gathering associated
with a time when bedtime kisses
didn't reek of alcohol
There is no preacher in the choir
and no smile on a dollar bill
so how many years do we spend
searching for things that aren't there?

I’ve tasted death at the bottom of a punch bowl
synonymous with punch lines
bruised knuckles and hypertensive wrists
fingernails apologetic, but are never heard over the roar
of a bright metallic crimson
It reminds me hands are meant for building and destroying
holding and letting go
so tell me why you haven’t cut your fingers off
why haven’t you drank the water in the cup
that is either half full or half empty
when millions are dying of thirst
tell me how you’ve prayed to not become a statistic
tell me just how much of one you’ve become
there are no happy endings at the bottom of a scotch glass
no "I love you" as you are huddled mumbling insanity to the stranger in the mirror
tell me about the stranger in the mirror
there is no solemnity in solitude
only a feeling of the impending car crash of loneliness
I am tired of tasting these jokes that never make me laugh
but leave me bruised and remorseful
I am tired of hearing these ambiguous uncertainties of yours
I am tired of spiking my punch bowl and I hope you are aswell.

Ever since I was a kid,
my father told me to keep my chin high
and to never waiver or stutter
he then proceeded to ask me if I ever heard a gun hesitated
they don’t.

Ever since I was a kid,
my mother told me to stand up straight
and flowers are the way to a womans heart
she then proceeded to ask me if your murderer would buy you flowers
they don’t.

Ever since I was a kid,
my teacher told me that academics was key
and literature could change the world
she then proceeded to ask me if publishers published suicide notes
they don’t.

Ever since I was a kid,
I told myself to keep my chin high
to never slouch
and to pursue literature like a never ever ending footrace
and when I proceeded to ask myself if living was worth it
the gun wouldn’t fire
I bought myself a rose for each year I’d been alive
and I published my own suicide note.

She said my lips reek of nicotine
finding the curvature of them
****** and demanding,
she swore they compelled her for a taste
she swore she loved me
with her fingers crossed
her lips traced my jaw,
marking the incision
I swear the poison seeped into
my jugular
my arteries are corroded
my veins are highways
ridden with ***** needles and broken pipes
my liver left my stuff on the outskirts
of my pancreas
my stomach flipped
and is being strangled by my intestines in an effort
to swallow your goodbye.

They said I was to be found drinking my own insecurities,
drunkard amongst men,
tripping tongue over formalities,
with a baritone greeting and a cup clutched in my talons
I sip and slurp and chug and swallow
the day I was told I was loved
like a child favorite television show,
but even they get tired of the reruns
and I’m constantly found slipping on whether
you meant to stay forever
but lost your way coming back home,
or maybe it was
the goodbye you left me with
that shocked the country into a plummeting recession.
I constantly found you pointing a finger in my direction
for I was the cause of your distress
your lack of trust
I was the handcuffs on a man with no arms
because there were always three fingers pointing back at you.
I took the lead out of the bullet and spent it
scribbling of the way your eyes looked in the moonlight
on bits of paper that I put into bottles
and sling into the ocean.
I doubt anyone will find them,
as the ocean engulfs them, and the depths seem to
sink deeper
as if the remorse plagued on those inscriptions
are the reason for a dwindling ocean life.

These monstrous buildings
that loom above us
cast a shadow
similar to an abusive father,
hand cocked back
as if the taste of his palm
will remind those he sways
of metallic bullets
and the forgotten stroll
the ****** streets
stumbling through lifeless puddles
as if a drunken Jesus
and the lonely seek solitude
and crave desire
and the life that fills the morgues
and graveyards
provides enough iron
for the worlds deficiency,
ashing our fingers as
anxious seraphims
pull out our nails
and staple eviction notices to joy
and mercy me
the trees fall to their knees
as if battered toddlers could speak above the screaming silence
at the table
of a broken home.

And as the stars themselves
keeled over
and spewed forth
innocuous belligerence,
the high
and wicked
and genius
and lonely
chewed on the butts of cigarettes teething their aching egotistical gums and the wind swept
through the gaps of their ribs
and it reminded our unholy entity
of wind chimes.