"hypoxic" poems
I’m alone, with smoke and bottles.
With an itch around my neck,
my feet kicks off the bench.
Surrounded by darkness,
a figure has come to jest.
“Did you do your best?”
Feeling hypoxic,
I try to shake my head “No.”
I look at him whilst my feet kick, longing for the ground.
Lighter by the second,
darkening complexion,
I silently scream, “No. No. No.”
With knowing eyes,
the angel sighed,
raised his scythe, ready to chastise.
Although red, my eyes see the light.
But wait, this doesn’t feel right.
Mr. Reaper had nothing to do with me tonight.
My back felt the cold of the floor.
I’m dying no more.
The ancient one cut my rope.
“Don’t.” he says to me.
“Promise me, try to live.”
But I see him nightly.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:08 AM UTC
My chest feels heavy,
my breathing is so tight
that I am almost running out of oxygen
leading me to a hypoxic state.
I’ve been punching
this pulsing sensation inside.
Cursing it to stop beating,
for all it ever pounds
is the most excruciating pain
I have ever felt my whole life.
Running deeply from my skin,
to every nerve and to every tiny
fiber of my being.
I wanted to scream
from the peak of Mount Thor,
from there I’ll jump
only to submerge myself
in the Mariana Trench
to slough every tear,
repel every hatred, and
to relinquish every throe
that there is inside me.
Where no one would have
to witness me at my weakest,
where nothing would hear me
as inconsolable,
somewhere I know I will not see you.
How could you?
You grabbed my heart,
petted it, then throw it away
and have it smashed
to the ground.
How could I?
Prospered by your sole existence,
and dreaded by
the wrath of tomorrow, by
the pang of longing, and
by the ache of defeat.
Bizarre, that’s what my faith is now.
As for my prayers, they’re perfidious.
I am finally unarmed.
Am no longer the warrior
I once used to be.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Where are you now
Seemed like you were on my back
Holding me back
With that warm embrace
Your warm memories sigh
Seem so benign
Don't step out of line
As well you know your place
The solace you sought
Was to give a millstone
Beguiled and betray your tone
I'd have you back again
Held me so close a cloistered prince
Thrive on your hypoxic high
On your placental supply
Ectopic asphyxiation
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
Air thin and caustic
each gasp leaving me a step closer to nauseous
lips taste the reality bitter and noxious
feel every breath taken, leaves me chest riven with anxiety
killing this ache that eats away at the dreams that live inside of me
if eyes are the windows to the souls, these eyelids secure my privacy
smothering the hazel pools from basking in sun ray's, yet these makeshift curtains no match for a fire sky
heart strained reminded of dire times
where I combined
every ounce of energy I could muster into one effort
made my bets and held my breath awaiting my death's ledger
the hypoxic reality that ensued
haunted me with ghostly recollections of you
my restless mind ventured through memories plagued with stinging sensations of uncompromising resent
I factored in my all the time spent
as well as my mind's rent
that you owed, being its only tenant
yet now that all emotional debts seem square, I don't have the heart to spend it
perhaps I'll store it away in notebooks and old pictures, praying the balance accrues interest over time left untouched in this my personal account
in something other than your love and its varying amount
battered hands pain-stakingly surmount
the pile of photos and letters, written with a future in mind
eyes wide, allowed you views inside
air thin and caustic, the light draining from these windows that leave my eyes dull
remain motionless, praying on a change, searching for my revival...
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Sometimes in the summer,
I walk down to the empty part of
my neighborhood at dawn.
there, vacant lots stretch their dry-grass-legs
and recline on the hillsides, napping.
they, the part of the American dream
that you always forget about when you finally wake up,
are the unwanted kin of proud homes.
by a storm drainage lake, brown with algae,
I take a seat on a rusted guardrail
and as I look across the water, hypoxic and still
for a moment transforming into fool's
gold before my eyes, as if Midas has crested the horizon,
I feel the gaze of my transcendental father,
and wonder why I'm able to feel at peace.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Taken from a sentient, spit forth and proceed. Like the hangnail that hung until you ripped it off, then told it about what happened. What ... what would happen in the coming months. Try to distance it: a runner in the coldest part of warsaw. The image that serves as the vessel through which I breathe, test tube attached to each struggle which is nothing. Everything vile in the phlegm of yesteryear. Why wait in this hypoxic state? Keep diving within and without.
Now - as if settled through writhing. Cold dex and cut-to-shit with baby's breath. Whittle me in the corner with a carrot peeler cause i ain't got the guts. Test the ceslestial light like a fuse box or put the lid on.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
I miss the frozen air
skimming the tilted surface
& pelting my bearded-face
with granular rock
as my snot drips
solidly afixed
between my red nose & blue lips,
these stinging eyes gazing
upward into
the blackest of nights,
an hypoxic-mind
trying to count stars,
stay focused on my brick feet
while thinking of you,
lying so sweetly
in the comforts
of a huge warm bed,
a mountain of sheets,
your skin on fire.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
There she stands,
An angel with broken hands,
An angel with stones for wings,
She sings the sun away
And spins timorous sky ashade
Of wonder, thunder row'n’ down
Her body, she sang of me
As I died asleep
Another night, my eyes too worn to cry,
Too alone for an expression of lonliness
To bare any meaning.
The sapphire trail
Skylark doled to drain
The riverrun grass of
Substance built.
Lifted in hypoxic transcendence
Glistening with light, ****** gold,
Skin to lilt, and touch to felt
And dawn rotted unto morning
With one less life having made it.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 2:21 AM UTC
Let it remain
ovarian pure. After strangulating
the truth,
for hypoxic euphoria.
Flies in your face
the dirt,
the denial, the terracota
of superposition of speech
hiding self-interest.
Blackened crozier
for wrinkeled crotch
drops the ashes of love
on unopened buds.
Weeping willow sways
in warm winds of prayers.
Strawberry in holes
nothing like bruise.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC