my eyes grow paler each day,
ive watched enough time pass,
two orbs, complete with a sky,
forests, creeks, and mountains,
the life contained within the body
was stored in the soil, behind our
eyes, there is a day that I hope to come,
I just need another day.

attached, captivated even, by
rosescaled gums, it isn't bone,
it's pulp, rattling in your mouth,
ricocheting off one another;
with all of this kinetic energy,
one could move a landscape,
the forests are your intestines,
plural and cavernous, every tree
is a member of one body

One body, lost at sea, never seemed
to find the peace that it set out to see

These are just two pieces of my body,
why do they remember everything?

people speak to hear themselves think,  

there are no more conversations,

no more characters to play



I am an actor wearing out my grief

between the lines that barricades fatigue,  

I cannot be tired if I wish to produce,  

such is the waking nightmare of grief,  

which renders feeling a commodity, a production

profitable in utility, as if “use” ever was real



with my ancestors as guardian angels, I am guaranteed to fall

into addiction, whether it be coffee and its ability to temporarily

halt grief, or when it’s midday and life wanes as if it were framed,

As if empowerment of the businesses through the destruction of my body

justifies the tears forming the empty warzones of childhood memory,  



My writing is power and the corruption of
inner-peace, invaluable until the end,  

indivisible until I’m bleeding out, begging for mercy

My tears, damp with grief, can finally crash

into the earth

Another labor of love gone unpaid

imagine that you're space music

fast asleep, amidst a gentle swarm of piano keys:

         A twisting void of everything you know  



     I, We forgot to give these words intentions

      because dreams started to unravel us,

these open sores in outer space bleed a dream:

connect to the world using the diseases in our brain, spill onto the world

a chemical that does not fade across lightyears, not a poison, but I am blue in the face

from screaming at myself in my bathroom mirror, the “I” that does not dream, but

chokes me all the same.



re-  asphyxiation

the voice that comes out of my throat regurgitates symbols that sound pretty,

but are only reflections of meaning, so that every word must be sick to its stomach, throwing

up, because the other I hasn’t forgiven me yet

do you ever feel like

your non-apparent body

  reduces your state of being?

I feel like a ‘would’ chip.

my body reduced to half a heart, blood of thorns,

On my “knees” doing “back-breaking” work that requires me  

to perform an autopsy on myself. Instead,  

I curb-stomp it against the sidewalk and clench my jaw,

wondering how to dream a little bigger.

I’m not murderer, though you might charge me with heresy as I stick “my” fingers down

my throat, the middle and index, and bring back the dead from still-born memories drifting

through Space.  

by never living in the first place, imagining that I is alive is simple;

pain seeps into my skin from the bile that I’ve slathered myself in.  

     If I were on earth, it would hurt more.







My writing takes up Space,

Allows me to breathe again,  

convincing me that I am not just keys,  

but an orchestra, a sound symphony

other times, it deludes

me into trying to make any noise at all  

     in the vacuum of what “I think”.

   I can't keep exploding

for another million years,

when will this half-life end?



lost in a body I can't remember,

          dreaming took the weight off of answering

      to questions that appear timeless



I’ve always dreamed of being human. At every Birthday party I didn’t have because no one

would come, every time I cried myself to sleep, every time someone died and came back,

“I” thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be better in a world without feeling?”



Everything has already exploded,

now, I am the last to go

What would writing be but the body of everything you wish to dream?

my body anti-matters,

a plane of forgotten space parted

at my hips, my jaw dragging behind me

like the trail of tears climbing my sunlight.




fallen into disrepair,

begging God to **** the belief

that I can go on like this  




my body weighs in,

"Would you drown for salvation?"




One day, I looked into the mirror, glassy-eyed

Turned my back on my body,  

who can't pick his battles,  

"You are chapped lips. You are yellow yelling teeth. One day, you're going to wake up,

choking on unexplored territory."




I went to sleep, screaming all the way down.

Where was "I"?
















At the very bottom of my throat

was a boy who wasn't me, but what I did.

knuckles-deep in my throat, while yelling  

"5 TIMES, 13 TIMES, 22 TIMES WITH NO END IN SIGHT"

he couldn't breathe in the still air,

but he's still waiting for a response.




If only he'd come out when I was there.

instead, he can't smile like he did before.




"He should've drowned in absurdity, shoveling painkillers down his maw with  

a glass-half-empty of bile to wash away the tears."




from below, we are both screaming.

This time, my carcass and I agree,  

One day I'll be consumed, but I'll savor it.




Dear God, up in heaven,

give me your blessing to eat this boy,

so that he doesn't die a prisoner,




but is consumed all the same.

I wake up every morning with a headache,

My mouth, an outlet for the bitterness,

Enthralled by the peeling tragedy that is

Ingesting enough caffeine to forget how to write



I am well-oiled, a glutton of efficiency,

Pour that Venti down my throat, I’ll still be hungry

Last year, Starbucks made $32B from selling gasoline,

Today, the hand of Productivity choked the life out of me.



I am no addict, it’s not one of those drugs,  

One day, everything I want to achieve  

Will be governed by the dopamine released

When my poems earn their weight in caffeine  



20 ounces of labor later and I am tired,

I douse myself so that I can ignite the hearts

of the people becoming automated machines,  

Self-driving, Self-Sufficient, and Self-Destructive

I do eat people
sometimes, they escape
they knock at the door
impatiently tapping my
the oak wood, their feet
humming a tune
that is completely,
utterly empty

I am locked up in the mad house
and for good reason too
When I let people in,
I close the door
When you step through
the doorway
I
Can't
Wait
any longer.

This precious little dream
Stays tucked away in silence
I'm listening to my heart beat

I think its a little slow and jittery
Then something slips out of my pocket
My eyes widen and I go blind

Warmth began to surround me
Heat holds my hand and dives below
It's drowning out my reality

I scream "I'm sorry" and let it go
The locket is on the ground and open
It was never about what you could see