what it felt like was
pain
and then more pain
to remind me
of the pain-
to push the pain
deeper

i lose track of myself
of my thoughts
of my mind
and forget
which lens i'm peeking through

i recall
the taste of your knuckles
and blood
my nose
spilling

did you think i was a painting?
for you to bruise
and abuse;
you covered me in yellow and blue

contusions, and confusion
you threatened me
constantly

and one day,
you will regret this

you'll miss me and i'll be gone

how do you write
when you're
barely able to feel

when emotions turn to
wind
and desperation

if you listen
ever so closely
the melody comes in

the leaves whisper
to me
all night, long,

i forgot where i was
but i think i'm coming to,
while coming up

i'll cling to my writing
like coffee
and cigarettes

the holy books say polyester is bad
but the falsified material felt warm
in the cold of the reaper's air

my veins didn't ache like they used to
instead, they rushed warm
even on nights spent asleep in metal boxes

i don't know how we slept
yet, something about your arms
brought a sense of lingering calm

i hear your teeth grind in your sleep
(it keeps keeping me awake)

i hope you're dreaming happy dreams tonight
(i hope i bring you happy dreams)

my nightmares have been having nightmares
(i might never fall asleep)

my hands crave your hands, in mine, held tight
(it's hard to make it through the night)

i am an artist whose mind simply no longer works
it just stumbles around, falls down, comes to
never says where it's been, and then slips back asleep,
just to dream of a higher, more sweet point of view

my paraphasia brain is filled with disdain,
heavy-laden with woes, vexation, and shame
awaiting a moment of rest, away from this stress
where i'm dreaming a brand new dream, within a dream

where i'm ready to spill out rhymes, in quick time
before the clock runs out of ticks, and out of tocks
just give me some rest... i'll lay my weary head to rest
and upon waking up, i will be free of writer's block

the light turned green
and he put down his phone
and headed home

the roads were bumpy
and curvy and long
like the tracks of a ******

and he thought of his
and hers and in between
and he let his brain fizz

his hands gripped the wheel
tighter,

green collisions
topped with
yellow petals
no,
white petals
no,
red petals
no,
pink petals

i think i'm hearing the colors
and tasting the sounds

do you think we melt in heaven?
i've always liked that thought

melting

the flowers
are waltzing
no,
moonwalking
no,
they're doing the salsa
no,
pole dancing

we're all flowers
learning to dance
in the wind

we're all writers
learning to pen
down our words

we're all artists
learning to drip
paint, quicker, faster

we're all struggling
to find
our waves

i've never danced before

i tried once

i cried

i don't write poems for anyone

i write poems to survive

i need these words
and broken stanzas
like the flowers
need their breeze,
need their water,
need their sun,
need their breeze,
need their water,
need their sun,
need their breeze,
need their water,
need their sun

my liver is black
these words are black
my shirt is black

the flowers stay full of color

i wonder
what
would
happen
if
we
learned
to
love
the breeze,
the water,
the sun,
the breeze,
the water,
the sun,
the breeze,
the water,
the sun,

the same way
the flowers
do

dancing