I am sorry
I am apologetic
I am regretful of my actions
I am contrite
I am repentant
I am remorseful
I am compunctious
I am so
so
sorry.

Do not look for him, Do not hope for him. When you remember that his name is concreted into every brick building, forget the language that you shared by any means necessary. Drink about it, smoke about it, write about it. Then heal about it. Every curve of every sidewalk Is an involuntary chance to see him so shove the feelings so far down your throat you can barely breathe, and then don't breathe. Let it choke you until you've killed this sick compulsion inside of you to be something someone will fall in love with. Don't breathe until he is dead to you, but don't let it **** you first. **** it. Along with your need to be heard and to be seen by people who don't give a **** about you. Hold your stomach down when you see him or hear his name in other people's mouths, don't let it do somersaults, crack open your ribs and reach inside with your bare hands to hold it calm, If you have to. Become better from this, take your bitterness and let it turn you compunctious of being bitter. Be stronger. Do not let your knees buckle under the weight of him. Do not pretend it doesn't sting, because it stings like salt on wounds,
But remember who you are
and what you want. Do not self destruct, do not collapse everything holding you together because a man could not cradle your mind in his hands, or feel your heart against his.

Loneliness fills my heart
It yearns for some affection
As the leaves fall during equinox
This lowly ***** starts to frail
I am losing myself
I cannot control this feeling
I want to disappear
Please, take me with you

The preacher, the politician both the same
Nothing but swindlers spewing specious sermons
Noisome talk from their mouths came
Rapacious hands, oh what vermin!

I, as if compunctious for my fault
Left feeling only surfeited  
Fulsome factitious assault
I am left as the convicted

I am stitched together with threads of regret. I constantly think about my compunctious what-might-have-beens. I want to forget everything so I put it on an old cassette, but it still continuously plays on repeat in my head. It scratches and scratches until I can't handle the pressure. I burst and each nerve in my body forms a million ruptures. Every one around me becomes overwhelmed and my good intentions are shattered. They enter a new realm. It's dark just like my soul, and it's lonely just like my sad heart. I'm alone here; my only company is this tempting blade I use to make all kinds of art. Maybe if I write something down, I'll feel less in a haze. I pick up the blade and start to write stories on each arm hoping that someday I might belong. For my wrists, I write about every night I spent in your car with the music turned up too loud for my thoughts and for my forearms, I write about every joke we ever shared that means nothing to you now. For my palm, I write lines of song lyrics that you told me to listen to because you thought they would help me get out but now they keep me in a pool that's not deep enough for me to drown. I'm stuck in this mental state and I'm choking on all the pills my doctor prescribed me. I want to get out permanently so I write some more on paper and begin overdosing.

All the grotesque grottos sing
From the South to East of salt salt sea
I am a Hawk with my own soul see
Spatial Hawker Janitor Tamer thither me
Dawning bell glitching summon dample fy
Pro tuning aging murky compunctious twittering
Accursed blues strobing my army my mae ***** and
Set them free
Rodent Civet made Echo solidly

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Except for the title none of this is mine; the direct quotation following is from Shakespeare:

                                              Jill Macbeth

…Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s *******,
And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, “Hold, hold!”

                                         -Macbeth I.v.41-62

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Macbeth, by William Shakespeare