This rolled growth of sweet Mother Earth,
now between my fingers I hold
her breath, bated, much like my worth.

Barefeet and barebones, renewed dearth
of repose, sanity consoled
by role - growths of sweet Mother Earth.

I’ve worked sweat from my brow, my girth
diminished. Love sits in green bold -
her breath, baited, much like my worth.

We consume each other. Rebirth
my sunken pulse from mellowgold,
this growth of mother. Rolled sweet earth,

up in smoke around Cheshire mirth.
With numbed senses, today I’ve sold
my bated breath, much like her worth.

And so we journal language, like Firth,
while The Sativa Saint extols
this rolled growth of sweet mother earth,
her breath, bated, much like my worth.

you were a perfectly good waste
of blank CDs
but it's okay
you never liked my mixtapes anyways

there's still a part of me
that can't let you go
I burned everything I wrote
flames in all the photos
but I kept the one that doesn't even show your face
you pulling me down the street in a sled,
so I can pretend
you were the one carrying my weight

lover
our favorite thing to do together
was go to the movies
half of our bodies touching
and I think you liked it so much
because neither of us would speak
and you told me to pick out my own Christmas present
at the store that you work in
one t shirt, one beanie
because 15% off is worth more than spontaneity

lover
I passed you in the hall
while you were trying to talk to me
and it was unbelievably hard
to just keep walking

lover
we always kept the lights off
backseats barebones long nights no sleep
black friday ****** mornings
you told me you would leave if we hung out
when I was anything but sober
but you laughed and kissed me instead whenever you see my eyes are red

I've been writing about you for the past 3 months
and it's all been complete ******* garbage
everything was always about you
and thanks to me, it still is

lover
love her
I feel sorry for her
I tried so hard
I wore flannel every day
to melt into yours
I was puddy in your rough palms
molding to every move
my bones are breaking
because I let you fill up every part that was empty
and I asked you about your father
and you never asked about mine

lover
I check your twitter every day
I just want to know what's going on in your head
I never knew what was going on in your head
you came over at midnight
to climb into my bed
and I begged you to stay
but you never forgot to set an alarm
there was a time limit on us
ever since the first day

lover
I never even met your mom
but you got ******
any time I felt embarrassed by mine
I wanted to be everything you wanted
but that just wasn't me
I'm so sorry
that you spoiled every part of me
that was worth keeping
that night at the bonfire
I was trying to give you a second chance
but you didn't take it
so I kissed him instead
sometimes I wonder
if I'm no better

lover
I'm sorry that I lied
I told you I would always be there
and so did you
in that book of poems by Gwendolyn Brooks you knew I had my eye on
you told me were bad at communicating
but maybe we just weren't listening
only waiting for our turn to speak
only waiting to hear you speak
only waiting for you to say that you love me like I always did
to make you feel sorry for me

lover
I wanted to love you so badly.

I am four and as my pigtails bounce in the frigid fall air my dad teaches me how to fly a kite. I watch, mesmerized, at the sight of red, blue, yellow, and green dancing together in the air. My dad is a puppeteer of magic. I can admire the world from his shoulders. My dad is my hero.

I am six and my dad is gone. He talks to me and my mom on video calls in a beige T-Shirt, he smiles while my mom cries. On Christmas Day all I really want to open is the computer screen to pull him out. I’m not old enough to understand that all I’ll get is pixels, little pieces of a mirror image that can’t compare to the real thing. I am six and as I ride in the backseat of my mother’s red explorer we listen to the radio and when “two soldiers die in Baghdad.” I think it’s my dad. Everything turns black. My life is falling apart.

I am eight and my mom tells my dad to go fly a kite, I ask if I can come too. She says he’s not the same since he came back. I wish I could remember; I wish I could choose. All I know is that while my hero is here, my life is not, and next year my mother is leaving. My dad is the reason.

I am thirteen and I wish. I wish. I wish. I am so jealous of the people around me I am green. I wish to mirror the bodies of AD Campaigns.  I hate my ******* teeth. I wish for a prince charming, to sweep me off my feet. I don’t have a home. So I build one in hate and I try to escape. I wish my dad could communicate. I try to run away. I have an innate ability to disappreciate. I am dysfunctionally full of distaste for every flavor of who I am. And I don’t know it, but my dad is broken. Because his life has escaped him like a magic trick, my table cloth of a mother has been pulled out from under the dishes on the dining room table, and maybe the glasses are still there but every little spill stains. All I know is that he makes me clean my room, and we argue. My dad is a tyrant.

I am sixteen and I am torn. Every time I shut the door to the houses behind me I wish I didn’t have to. The guilt of escaping is suffocating and I am no longer filled with a jumpy buzz at the thought of leaving. Because I feel like I’ve already gone, and I’ve never had a place where I belong.  And the idea of being an adult sends shivers up my spine, brings darts to my eyes, and staggering breaths into my throat like a scratched CD. I’m not ready. My dad holds my head to his shoulder, laughing at me. And now that I’m older, I see. My dad is my home. My parents build the barebones of my skeletal body, and even though the responsibility of paying the water bill makes me anxious, I’m glad I get the paint the walls

-mrm 10/5/15

i spilled black coffee down the barebones of your thighs and watched as the paleness of you blush into ruddy-ness. below, i watch the tarred remains of me that couldn't stick to you spread and sink into the earth.

If words could believe what I write than the sound of breaking hearts may dictate beauty.....
Childish bickering turned into angry adultery measured by teenage angst....
Sometimes became never opposed by guaranteed indecision.....
When hands felt electric now only memorable sparks......
Eyes never melt they only lock on angry frozen failure......
Buried feeling now never see what there absence pollutes .....
Storms are constant warnings of devastating damage.....
What and where is the feelings of my arms keeping love safe....
A memory of the shine in your eye is the pain I can't face.....
All I know is soon this will be lost
But times I think maybe it wasn't worth the  cost.....
Liars face truths to barebones to deny
Strength is measured sometimes in the tears you will cry.....
Being lost means you finally found home.....
And being with "everyone" can make you feel alone.....
Money now creates bankruptcy of feeling....
And being grounded in pity means you have no ceiling. ...
Loneliness can be felt when your with the wrong forever....
And painful memories are the ones you most treasure....
I got lost in pain and truthfully could not tell....
That without her in my life I was living in hell......

When rain miraculously touches your body
isn't turned into glass.
The constant gaze of rivalry.
Barefoot across the fields you run,
Nails in a dream.

Barebones,you, against
the water,dreaming,
pearls in the night
"Dancing in the courtyard."

"You stand out", they tell you.
Tight passages that murmur,
the sound of your steps
I yearn for walls to not mimic them

"Dancing around the corner."
Pearls on her neck, chained,
You too, seem to enjoy the attention.
Maybe, "I stand out to her."

Barebones, they come
in droves, to drink blood moon
praying in catacombs.

A summer night sets
over the hills with black eyes. The
cleavers have some jobs to be done.

In perfection, the bodies
should be laid― along with red woods.
The autistic moon will find its lover.

Aborted dawn, the clouds
had covered the womb. The
terrible sun had been roped in.

Earth weeps. There was
no peace.A ghost town rumbles
on. I cannot crack the code.

Despite the temperature being five below...
these fingered handy limbs
awash with profuse sweat
dripping palms analogous
to a ****** busted gushing water main.

Mein kampf analogous
to a self made prisoner
who cannot escape being terrorized
and tortured within invisible
hermetically sealed walls of air tight prison
regularly hunted down
courtesy malevolent daemons
blood curdling deathly silent screams
echo within the sound of silence.

Earlier today some jokester
(like a batman out of hell
came round boppin
like some robin
after their diet of worms)
riddling mine psyche
into a war torn zone analogous
into a veritable no man's land
heavily strewn with deadly explosives

detonating deafening explosive
rife with volatile anxiety,
I felt hunted and targeted
like a common criminal
forced to scuttle
meager barebones existence,
and gladly plunge into an abyss
unbeknownst to me
on par with Dante's inferno.

Hours after grueling life and death battle
keppie (in Yiddish a lighthearted
and endearing way
to refer to a head or forehead)
severely suffered bruises and lacerations
courtesy familiar enemy
(known to me donned
as trumpeting evil
doppelgänger barren of virtue)
relentlessly sadistically and tyrannizing
mutilating corporeal flesh
until flayed muscle and tendon
abandoned as ****** heap.

Visitation of cruel taskmaster
(omnipresent every waking
and sleeping moment of hellish
fiery brimstone existence)
repeatedly brutalized yours truly,
no matter I did plead for mercy
for spirit who usurped eminent domain
to please cease and desist
punishing life lessons
making a cameo appearance

after a reprieve of temporary truce
to drive me towards the maws of death,
yet stopping just shy of beating
the living daylights out
generic lovely bones genetically assigned
to one frazzled sexagenarian,
whose hellish existence
nearly brought to an untimely end
when victimized fellow
subjected to a maelstrom

of suicidal ideation
when a mere adolescent lad
and days, weeks, months...
years, decades, scores
of ragged orbitz round the sun
chock full of accursed torment
barely alleviated courtesy
nine prescription medications
authorized by credentialed nurse practitioner
predicated on symptoms of social anxiety,

dysthymia, obsessive compulsive disorder
absolute zero relief
against wanton depredations
rendered ineffective today
the seventh of June
two thousand and twenty four,
hence a feeble intent to communicate
insufferable beast of burden
wracking one figurative rolling stone.

I managed to drive to and fro a short outing
dodging, hedging, lunging away
from slippery grasp of nemesis
attempting to pull
at sorry these excuse for legs
nevertheless seriously lacerating epidermis
only to realize, the horrific killer
left his tell tale signature
with ****** phalanges
dangling from wrists linkedin to my arms.