Where are the voices crying out
  from the din

Where is the blood you spilled
  from within

Where is that Siren who once
  called your name

Where is the fortune promised
  by fame

Where is the promise you made
  to yourself

Where is that demon unseen but
  still felt

Where is the beacon to lighten
   your ink

Where is the harbor this side of
  the brink

Where is the feeling,
  hearts lost in the fall

Where is the meaning
  —no words left to call

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

Mushrooms and tiny pops,
Fungus growing deep inside,
Its too much, too loud.

"Boys will be boys." psh.
"how do you know its the truth?"
" Smile sweet heart, its pretty."

Your betrayal is a knife
Laced with scorn
Anger
And idiocy.
Turn your scaly back
On the Sun
And the Sun will burn you,
I wish at least.
I hope for the burn to lasts ages,
So you feel the dull,
Aching,
Wretched pain of your forked tongue
Spitting venom in my face
And on my back.