Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.

He didn't believe I was crazy
But you can't see the insides of peoples
Skulls and mine was plastered with posters
Of him and pictures of us.

I'll cut off my head to get out
Then you can keep it if you think it's so pretty
Just throw the rest of me to the wolves
They've already had it.

The melody said "love is watching someone die"
then sign me up to catch your last breaths
Because I want to see you realize
what you gave up.

Flatline
Doctor leans over me
In my eyes he can that im dying
No time to mourn no time to find time to cry. If I    were to relive my life would  I choose to end it. Why  so confused why no more good news. Where am  I going to go when im gone. I chose my choice now im to far out, hidden in doubt. If I could hold time I'd never let it fly by. Im not okay im not fine . Ive realized ive flat lined. Whispers in the night fighting for a fight to survive through flatline. My life in shambles my memories scrambled.  my gritting teeth begin to bleed. This hell I scream. My body fused  by the flame. Cracked between the crevices of forgotten memories. How did i get here. I don't deserve this. I lead a good life. Now I'm deserted. I try to breathe but it starting to seem that im  held by the chains that i have carried with me. All my useless desires fade to a sea of gray. I will never see the light of day.  bounded and confined I lay down to cry as the pain seeps through my skin. I missed the mark and theres no turning back.  I've cross the line. Is this what it means to flatline.

9:43 on a frigid clear morning, the morning I made the conscious decision to stand as far as possible from the dropoff to the train tracks, and an older gentleman next to me, newspaper folded, saying "It's a cold one today, isn't it". And I smiled in agreement and I drank my overpriced coffee, fogging up the sky.

10:13 on the train, unwashed windows turning the sun *****-bright, and I didn't drift off for it as all the men in suits and flatlined mouths slowly did.

And 11:36 in the City, a man I had decided not to love and his sarcastic appreciation of modern art, and me laughing endlessly. And this man showing me his secret hideouts and telling me secret stories, stories that you earn. I had decided not to love him, though, and so I didn't. It was easy because he had made no such call.

And 5:52 in his marble high-rise and his bed that was bigger than my bed, on it, he told me he had decided not to love me too. And then we kissed, and kissed, with nothing-to-lose moving our hands and mouths all over each other. Nothing-to-lose tangling his sheets and relaxing our heartbeats, and making them audible.

8:04 on the night of the morning I began to fear the third rail and the whoosh of the New Haven line, a bruise on my neck and my kiss-swollen mouth flashed red and *****-bright to the post-commuters, and the man I forgot not to love still in the city, and the feeling of peaceful but irreversible damage heavy on my lap.

A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!

Your name on my lips
sends my blood coursing through me
rushing, **bleeding out

He wears his solivagant demeanor like armor; your battle of love will never scratch his silver plated chest, your swords will never pierce the walls inside his ribcage called, "home" Home is where the heart is and he flatlined a long time ago; broken heart syndrome only has only 11 documented cases of death, but something snapped inside that boy that day and I think about how they never mention that you can die on the inside, too.
He says cigarettes are a way to manipulate time, that sand is just sand if you don't know how much you have left in your hourglass, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
You could've called us time travelers, we were making best friends with the moon and the stars as we breathed in the promise of calm, an ashen beach lay beneath us. Sand is just sand, after all.
The confessions of an insomniac, the stream of unfiltered emotion laying open, so vulnerable- how terribly sad it looks in the light.

(Heart beats)

What does it all mean actually? Love.
The thing that we all chase, feel, abuse, anticipate and yearn for.
No money can buy its power. No fortune teller can predict when it may happen. We seem to be in denial about it. Some of us have it and forget about it, like an old pair of shoes that we were once excited about but now just look at as something that once gave us this amazing feeling...only to fade and be thrown away. Why do we just forget and throw it away? Why does that excitement fade? Where does it go? Is it instilled in us as people to naturally get rid of what once made us feel good? Maybe it's the distraction of others? or the tarnish over time?
I have no idea. I try not to ask. I've been fooled by my heart so many times that I have no idea what my mind even thinks when encountered by the fury of love, the captive eye of its emotions. "We were young" "No good thing last forever" "I don't know what happened?" The excuses. They never match up like the wrong pieces we try to force into the puzzle. Why do we try to make it fit? Why is love so complicated? And why is it so abused? "I love you"... "do you?" We say in our head...self consciously...because trust is an issue. But we instead say "I love you, too" to help break our fall. Falling helplessly hoping to grab something to stop us from breaking, shattering like a piece of glass and love was the hand that couldn't handle us...so they let it go to break. "I'm sorry"...are you? Because you once said "I love you" are you just saying things to help yourself of your dazed condition? Are you just a malicious heart seeker? Do you still "love" me? Or was this all a dream? That's what love is right? A dream... A moment, a thought, a figment of ones imagination, sleeping for hope, only to wake up and realize it was never real. I pray the idea of love changes like all does over time. I hope it becomes more of an art form and not a skill. There is a difference. The art form is created off a skill but the art form isn't something you practice...it's something you internally create and lasts a lifetime. Others see the art form and get inspired to want, do the same...or so we hope.
Love isn't extinct...it's not fading...it's not to be forgotten. It's just stopped being created. It's not being treated right...it's being abused and forced to do what it wasn't placed here to. So I ask again. "What does love mean?" "Why is it still being abused?" Will its art form be remembered...if it dies?

What is love...
(Beeps start to slow down)
why'd you take it from me...
(Beeps slow down)
What is...
(Flatlined)
*What
          Is
               Love?

My ribcage shatters apart to expose 
Splintering fragments of brittle bone
I scrape them up into a pile 
Offer them to you with a smile
Carving into this sordid heart of mine
With ink spilled from the grip of your fingertips
It spells the words I've never heard
Uttered from the sinister curls of your lips
And the lusting lick of your desire across my death bed of wilted roses
I feel your hunger devouring what's left of mine to give
Your kisses I repress with my tongue
But I'll give in until you're done 
I'll beg for more down on knees with prayers 
when our course has had its run into the immolation of the sun
We'll end our affairs and leave it unrepaired 
dwelling in the darkness that we've built upstairs
I fall into your black tracing scars upon your attack
I feel the bones break in your back
When we collapse our arms around ourselves
Holding tight into a mendacious night
seething with tumultuous roars 
Our bellies hungrily ache for each others' taste
We satiate ourselves until the early whisper of dawn 
Leaving our scars in scraps of flesh and song
The bite of your bitterness sings along

So tattered I leave beside you
So shattered I break inside you 
So torn to be reborn without you

We mourn the morning of our scorn
Pressing it into the palms of our hands
Pushing deeper this belly ache of rotten thoughts and perceptions
Those secret discretions buried clear in our deceptions and flatlined intentions
We have lived this life we give with smoldered chances rendered
Not a moment to spare for the tired or mentored
Guided by the guilty jilted mistakes of our indiscretions
Our hands are bathed in the blood of our love 
It takes every ounce of me not to give in to reminiscing of missing what we're dismissing
We're lost searching with no profound calling to take hold of our hands and lead us into the light
just speechless apparitions given into desperations of heartache and failure 
seeking a savior to release this pressure building inside the beating of our entwined hearts

"God why, why god? Why me? Why is life so miserable? I want to give up. Show me. Help me."

These words. The ones weighed so heavily on a hospital bed. They dragged the air down to my shoes leaving all lungs without oxygen.

The walls felt deep.

Never ending abyss of confirmed failures. Continuance of a ringing that still bleeds in my ears today. The slow beating of a flatlined life.  

This was simply the bad news on repeat. Stuttered and obliterated my brain waves that couldn't find up from down.

I've never seen a heart spread so neatly on the floor.

The pieces too small to pick up one by one. Instead we stare and observe a life not wasted across the linoleum. Watching the pieces flutter and shake in their space

So we swept the pieces into the corner. No need to keep this reality playing like elevator music. Stand by if you know what's best for ya.

These walls are for the broken hearted, the wretched, and fallen, you'll fit in just fine.

Lets push this bed out the window, it will be the first time we've been free in years. Like a bird? **** that, today we are our own.

Find wing tips fluttering fallout baby balling on a window sill. Haven't felt this way before. Outpatient freedom that will last as long as that nice pair of socks that somehow, your dryer ate and turned into lint.

I'm gonna need some therapy with that noxious cup of coffee. I can't simply continue the same beaten path.

I loved you before the alcohol,
Hourglass to the soul,
hour pass,
days maybe...
in between the formulation of golden nuggets in the mountains silver sands.
You held my hand and through velvet touch,
Electricity meander through my arms,
before the storm calm,
the start of a heart attack -
then the pack of house of cards collapsed.
In a deserts smile,
you flatlined through our favourite past times.
The pastures rich with buttercups
and dandelions like the last time.
When we walked over the train tracks harvest.
Last summer and last spring.
Somethings are everlasting,
and some pass like storm clouds without one droplet of rain,
in casting,
our love grew like tulips,
Yellow, red and blue,
bruises,
but soon come the rain,
our muses loses,
&
rendered useles;
I went away and
It's too soon to explain myself,
For that.
Back,
with cap in hand.
Lost in hearts melted by false starts,
and feathered cap,
Falsetto moods
sharp stilettos,
slap back.
I couldn't let go when the sun came through,
and a calming parting of the clouds where the rain came blue.
I thought I could live without you,
but I bottled it,
again.
Now I've nothing left to give,
but my gift to you.
sinking, sleeping in the land dunes
trying to understand you.

Faced back before the field space overrun
of runway's end, rusted spikes of flower'd
dock, the field left empty there.  World's
airport flatlined beyond and down the sky
ride planes on turbined mist.  The stack's
descent, each air-braked glide to tarmac
draws another on and down the day
I slip off into, drive away
along the curve of it.  Before

Haslemere, where a tight hedged bend turns up
to the town, is a roe deer, struck dead against
a van.  The driver, in descent,
appalled before the long, spread body
of this two year buck, its twin-tined head
laid to ground, a trickle of blood at the mouth.

It fell to this elegant pose
athwart the van's front width,
white neck flopped from the withers;

Crash landed in a sudden grace of death.

Slowly unfolding
The Priceline has flatlined.  
You'll see now,
So we can find out now.

It was yesterday that I said we stay but, the price line has flatlined today

I cant do it again,
I only began to feel alive,
and it was so easy to pretend,
that everything you had forgotten was,
well.. temporary.
How could i not notice that you started to forget what i had said,
that repeating my self had become a common occurrence,
I cant do it again,
feeling as though my time with you,
was a heart machine i couldn’t view,
and when you flatlined,
i would fall to my knees,
but a prayer won’t save you,
god has no mercy,
I cant do it again,
I don’t want to dress in the color,
that absorbs happiness and hides emotion,
I don’t want to be encompassed by sunshine,
but feel darkness wherever I walk,
hear about you,
but not be able to see you,
see pictures of you,
but not be able to take one of you,
I cant do it again,
not only I had a wounded heart,
you didn’t just hop off the side of the boat,
but you sunk it,
with everyone waiting on the deck,
hoping that you would come back,
we all knew you had shot a hole,
in the side of the boat,
and as the water slowly inched its way,
from the bottom of our feet,
all the way,
above our heads,
we stayed standing strong,
holding each others hands,
as silence and sadness ,
greif and worry,
flooded our minds,
but don’t worry we survived,
we remember your story ,
every day,
constantly living in your memory,
even though you couldn’t,
but i cant go through it again,
I cant go to school every day,
waiting for a call to the office,
hopping they won’t have anything important to say,
because that would mean it was all ok,
but silently hoping the day had come,
because that day all your suffering would end,
and you’d go into the white light,
see your mom and all your friends,
but if there is one thing i know for sure,
is that I can not do it again.

Thought are not suppose to be bottled.So I pour my *** down the sink when I think, it runs down,and I **** away the world afflictions, cause its bigger than my shrink.Hard to blink cause my addiction is I stare into space tryna find my place.To be libra, even with the ying yang cause its constant battle in my cerebral.
Dealin with neglectful people,resultin with me to project hate towards the one I call fam.
****!
I should crucify my hands cause its writtin so much sin from heart.Its truely hard to be positive cause im always dwellin in the dark.
I feel thats what my only option is.
Haunted by the future, dreamin bout the past,tryin to recover, and exhume feelings to rid of that never last.Cause I dont want  stained names writtin on my heart cast growin pains maken me nuts, groin pains.
I want no part of that!
Sometimes I wanna die of a broken heart attack.Beating too seperate pulses on the screen, watch  it get flatlined and silent like my hopes and dreams.
pshhh **** this self esteem!
I been bullied at young,laugh at cause I was fat and dumb,always askin for theyre pizza crust nd crumbs.Always picked last and never won not once.
But I aint done,lost my father, young and I wasnt a good son.Im his off spring that sprung with mean gene son.Him a Drug addict, im the pain addict,I inject the hate habbits an cry in my own attic.
Hopin for a dragon tails, or some
Harry potter magic.
At night I see father & son commercials on the tv screen, I cringe, cause I remember thinking one day thatll be me.To have some  sorta memory of the dAy that we meet.But it never came to pass or be. No sir-ree!  he was notorious, but all he gave me was a  missed calls and birthday wishes never granted, and dead dreams.And a ache, that came with me when I left the nursery the day I was born.
Breathless, a severe asthmatic. Abnia child,who eventually  grew wild,while with no father to tell him to sit down! Im AdHd I cant keep calm! Ima a pessimisst with thoughts in my
Mind that storms from night till dawn.
All about christ,with nails as the  pen in my palms.Reading the psalms,to keep strong but im still weak ,a lefty doin right is wrong.
Still keep my heart on my arm I still flex  nd rep love till packed solid like abs and pecs. But just give a nine or tech, to shoot bullet notes.The ology of knowing me, is a study of a SOB.. Shortness of breath...


Lost in direction I need a pointer,
And eyes cause im walkin wrong,
No seein
Not believing


-Deep Thought

Great, I think she wants back in my life
She walked out when we possibly had a future maybe with two kids a happy husband and wife
I'm still bearing wounds from our last encounter
It's ludicrous what I had to go through with this *****
Oh wait I shouldn't say that even though she ripped my heart into halves and almost flatlined me
So even though I swore I wouldn't do any more rhymes about her I'm going out of my solace to lay my feelings to rest like a hydraulic mattress
I'm glad this has happened in a cosmic sort of way because no matter how hard it became alive I stayed to prove not to just to her but myself that you can survive heartbreak of that density those few weeks felt like a nomadic crackhead wandering the centuries yet it interests me that she expects me to say something to her first which is why I'm putting all of my problems and angst into this verse
I'm open to being friends again I'm all for that because what happened shouldn'tve happened at all but don't you dare play with my heart again because of you do I'll burn you like a succubusses ***** after an STD

I flatlined in the flatlands.

© Matthew Harlovic

Feel the pain stir in my stomach
Stab at my heart
Sick in my throat
Pound in my head
Fall from my eyes
This feeling comes as no surprise
Some parts are just numb

Blinded by choice. Shh why cant you hear those silent cries? She is reaching out  with her misunderstood voice.
You cannot see that invisble exit she seeks. She can, hearing those beckoning her spirit, as she reaches into another dimension not fearing touching deaths blade. Tired of the uphill journey just to let her name  be spoken upon those lips that dont see or feel the difference. Selective in what emotions they want to feel. She can walk by her very breath  unheard as her heartbeat slowly aches and wants to fade away. Feeling her existence is just that, it appears a shell,where echos can be heard now that  her heartbeat has flatlined. She is finally free from the weight of hiding her heart and how her own  family exited and evicted themselves from her when .....
She lived.

(C) 2015 cherry rose

I watched a man die from a distance the other night at work.  
He was a patient on my unit,
                                                    a BOP, a bedded outpatient.  
Came in for a routine procedure, it ran long, so they
stuck him in a bed overnight for observation and
discharged him the next afternoon.  

Came back three days later.  
Valve exploded in his chest.  
Transferred to CVICU.  
Coded twice.  

The first code was cancelled almost immediately.  
False alarm.  Critical condition, but not a code.  
The second code they called dragged on and on and on.  

I know this because someone pulled him up on the telemetry monitor by our nurse’s station, and we watched him flatline, watched him asystole, watched his heart at zero and zero and zero.  Watched them bag him, give manual respirations.  Watched the forced waves on his flat rhythm from each compression.  Every palm to sternum.  Every electric shock caused a wave and then fell flat.  Zero.  Zero.  Zero.  Absolute zero.  Like in space or whatever.  So cold.  No life, no movement.  Zero, just zero.  Flatline.  Asystole.  No life possible, no life attainable.  
I watched him die from a distance.  From two floors above on a computer monitor.  Secondhand death.

They stopped compressing,
                                                    stopped bagging,
                                                                                   and he stopped existing.  
Became stagnant, static.  No longer
held in the balance, in the limbo,
in the purgatory between life and death.  
                                                        ­                    He crossed over and
                                                             ­             stayed at absolute zero.  

I never met him, just knew of him, so
                                                              wh­at does that mean for me?  
                                                           ­   What am I supposed to do with
           the knowledge that many of the patients I come in contact with
                          die sometimes very soon after I meet them?  

Most things I touch die.  Plants, fish, hamsters, my mother.  
We can’t spare everyone, that’s stupid.  There is
a natural order to things.  Darwinism.  Survival of the fittest.  
                                        All that *******.  

When my mother landed herself in the ICU, we knew
                                                   where she wanted her money to go, but
                not what we were supposed to do with all this ******* grief.  
                Not what to do with her body.  
                Not if we should keep her on life support to
                                                                ­                  drag out the suffering.  
She gave no directions on how to live without a mother.  

(But how do you direct something like that?
An idea so big, so lofty that directions will always fall short.)

The grief cycle will
                                     always fall short.  
Most days I don’t think acceptance is truly possible.  

Some days I’m there, and others I’m not.  
                                                          ­          It’s not linear, it’s not stagnant.  
                                                     ­                       It’s not absolute zero.  
It moves back and forth and
                                               becomes the snake eating its own tail.  
                                                         ­           Ouroboros.  

Where do you go from here?  How do you truly move on?  

I’m falling through a gas giant.  Nothing keeps hold here,
                                                         nothing keeps score (but the body).  

It’s 5:27 in the morning and I’m thinking
                                                 about that man that flatlined again.
Zero on the telemetry monitors, no heart rhythm, asystole. Spike for compression.  Nothing, nothing, nothing.  The body gets cold when there is no more blood pumping, no more heartbeat, no more brain waves; nothing to keep it warm.  Blood slowly slinks down to the lowest bend.  Becomes a bruise on the skin.  Absolute zero is the coldest theoretical temperature. No movement possible.  So cold, atoms cannot move.  Electrons cannot hum.  
                                                        The body becomes this. No life possible.

"Should have known it was contagious like a sickness.
But I'm not sure if I want the vaccination for this.
Do I suffer from it like Hell? Do I try to rid it and get well?
All it took was a inhale of scent. Paralyzed.
All it took was a taste. Sterilized.
All it did was drop me to the floor. Flatlined.
All I did was beg for more after I would die..
Infected High. "

"It was all so beautiful"
The sky, the sea, the trees,
as she said in final breaths,
Flatlined and silence,
I still miss her,
it has been years now,
And all I think about
when I see the sky,
is her voice,
saying how beautiful it was.

My will
melted away like a popsicle
now a pool of sugar
evaporating quickly
leaving behind
some sticky stick
singing sweetly
of a thing that was once good.

My imagination crafts a new one
a few done
and alone
wooden sticks pile up
like maggots on your corpse.
You, my emotional self,
flatlined and bruised.
Nobody there to be amused.

there will be time in your life
when nothing seems to work
when all the pain you can muster up in your wrists
will not be nearly enough to shoot endorphins through your veins

when you don’t know if the choking feeling in your throat
is because of the pills you downed in a heartbeat
or the recurring thought of “i’ll never be good enough”
of “maybe i should just **** myself”

when the sadness has drilled too big of a hole in your chest
that your nerves can’t seem to send your brain signals
that pain has flooded your entire system
shutting down not only your organs
but also your ability to move
to speak
to think

when your highs seem like mountains to climb
and your lows just another step forward
to fall into the neverending trance
of the sensation upon reaching the bottom

you just want everything to stop
you want your atriovencular valve to cease its motion
your aortic valve never to open again
to never close again
there will be no more isovolumic contraction nor relaxation
the beat at which your heart dances to keep you alive

you want it all to stop
maybe it will keep you from life’s ups and downs
you want a flat line
no rising action
no falling action
you want nothing
you want to be nothing
or you just want to be happy

but if there are no ups, no downs
no contactions
no relaxations
when your heart has flatlined
that means you’re dead
and no amount of epinephrine will bring you back

just take a shock to the system
please, whatever you do
don’t sign for a DNR
“do not resuscitate”
take a shock to the system
to remind you that being around
is actually pretty worth it
that pain
that suffering
they give beauty to life
they are the beauty of life
that you’re the beauty of someone else’s

Lab coat on
I stand in a cold morgue
Scalpel in one hand
My heart in the other.

Hands tremble
Making the first incision
Cutting through the sweet memories
And stripping it from the bitterness
you left behind

It lays open
Displayed on a silver tray
Tied down by your half truths
And compassionate lies
Held down by the “I love you”
And trapped by your “Don’t go”

A beaten heart
That no longer beats
No longer pumps love
But instead is filled with tears
And regrets

It has lost its color
A vibrant red
was turned into
a Coal-black
As dark as the bruises
You left behind

Yet
Flatlined
And without pulse
I still live
With nothing on my sleeve
And an empty hole
on my chest.

Pain in my heart
Been hit with a dart
I could have been smart
Kept us apart
So when you want to restart
My still lungs and heart,
Notice, sweetheart
You had a part
Don’t even start
Doctors look at my chart
“Flatlined”, “Dead heart”
The scene was “graphic art”
My body, motionless
All because
You couldn’t tell heartbrokenness
From suicidal hopelessness