Fatefate is the slutwe take out fordinner in the LasVegas of life.She fucks us andthen leaves us ina dusty hotelroom, with only ourempty pockets andthe sun bleachingour eyes dry
Yesterdayyesterdayi nearly disposed ofmy existenceand i still have to wakeup, caked in a layer ofunfeeling burn marks, justto be swallowed by crowdsof ignorance again.just because i'm notcoughing up a lungdoesn't mean i'm notsick, and if you won'thelp me slay this monsterby giving me over to ahospital for souls, it's yourown damn fault i'm nevercoming home.
Saviori used tostumble overthe same brokenfog infectedhighway, behind alayer ofnostalgiaand pineuntil he cameand painteda galaxy acrossthe rocksand pasted starsall alongmy wrists
Endlessi could talk to youuntil my throat bledfrom all the sharp cornersof every wordand i'd listen to your voiceuntil the suncircles the moon.and then some
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
Gluei left your sorry assto decay in the dustbecause my arms hurtfrom carting aroundall the glue it tookto fix you.
twothese scars will meltwith time, but the emotionsare forever branded tothe hour that birthed them andthe strangers they belong to
Hookedhe got attachedlike velcrobut iwas fused to himwith super glueso whenhe pulled awayit stung me harder
11:47roses are redviolets are bluecompliments mean nothingwhen coming from you.don't tell me i'm skinnydon't call me fatjust acknowledge i'm humanand leave it at that.
Umbrageousshe is a lionwith the starssewn to her cloakand i am a wolfwith a mindtattooed in charcoal. they will always see the stars
i am no god-made manoh, you're so pathetic,with your parasitic nervousness;you're an anxious fever-boned boy& you've got manic headachesscrawled into gasoline anthemslike you don't know love'sonly parasympathetic &we're all romanticists(you may have smoke-spiral fingertips, butwe've all got a knack for burning ourselves out).
Still Oxidizinglast nighti read theobituariesand when i sawyour name wasn't deaddecaying or rustingrotting in a forestmingling with a pile ofashes, i realizedyou really couldlive without me
sixhe plucked six white rosesfor meand even though they'll diein a week,it's matchless to any other gifti've received
Exit WoundsI followed an impulse to the forestand was rewarded with somethingband-aids can't heal.Now my thoughtsare staining the dirt.At least they aren't important.
Springthe stale air in my lungsis depleting with eachbreath of crude spring.my blood is melted,my heart is smolderingand my eyes are aflame.the corpse of winterlays dormant undermy feet
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;like the ink scratchesof plath, i ama diamond-dreamerstraw-stitchedspecter boy: decay,dispose, & disappointbecause this is the waythat writers wane -(this hangman head is nosurvivor story, & godsdo not burn outin supernovas)
How to Be an Artist (haiku)(Post-It Note to Self)Bid darkness welcome…Rest easy—ready your mind's twigsFor a spark’s orange touch.
Writer's Clog Writers may struggle when facing a blank page. They claim they have fallen victims to writer’s block. I am unfamiliar to such thing: blankness. I suffer from a far worse torture: writer’s clog. I look at my life and it is too written. So many words, feelings and memories. Each day, I could live an entire lifetime in a minute just by looking back on my existence so far. I often choose not to. Shockingly enough, minds and choices do not always go hand-in-hand. I am yet to tame my wildly free thoughts. Each night, I am held hostage to my unconscious, which provides me with a multitude of dreams, featuring the same face or faces every single time and so overly plotted that I anchor myself to bed – to avoid being pulled in for good. I confess I have sought for blankness a few times over the years, but the one that seems to find everyone cannot be found by me. Either a tragedy or a blessing. I seek no longer. I am overflowing with….
-I want to be the cigarette coerced against your lipsInhale me deeply so I can return to the cavern of your chestTainting your heart and making it love me againI depart blissfully through your lips as I kiss them with my toxicitySpelling your name in wisps of smokeLet her taste me on your tongue and your clothes and let her coldly resent you for itYou cannot quit meI rest in your veinsWhere I belong
the writers were ice-pick lobotomistswe made a temple out oflayered bones - fit themtogether with grey matter.poet kids, we were waning,wasting, rotting out ourteeth. heavy hangmenhammered nails into ourskulls; we were scrawlingourselves blade-thin& smog-weary.
i speak too fast for necromancya cigar-store solipsiststuffing towels in doorways,i was crowned prince asphyxia;oh, do not fall in love withdead boys - you can't makemartyrs out of suicide drones.
scapegallows and metacarpalsi was cracking collar bones,splitting through my spine &oh - i was divinity, a demigodto paint my knuckles red beforemy lips were blue.i'd wanted to be wayworn;i'd wanted to be catatonia& comorbidity buti knocked my molars looseon my right metacarpals,spat out yellowed teethlike headsmen lop the necksoff sanctities
(head) cavitiesi am the connoisseur,the pictorial rotten boy -conversations caughtbetween a sick head& the bathroom tap(cold hands to match);i am bile-burns & bone-thin,corrode & decompose mybody to ruin,to skeleton
i slept in cemeteriesi was lazarus'til i got sick of talking it out(then i spat it up & swallowed it instead);couldn't keep my splitting spine straight,but i lacked the nerve for stuffing towelsin doorways. oh, my body was emptyvessels - i clawed tissue fromtissue, riven viscera revealedmy leaden bones to haunt thishead(case). i severed my tongue,amassed my maniato wake in sixby two or206
Run AgroundI sailed choppy tidal waves,just to deliver my heart in a bottle.The blood it once pumped through my body,now flowed along the current......before sinking into the bottomless pit.Much like it used to, whenever I thought about you.As I stepped back with both feet on shore,watching the sunset for the last time......I fell face first on broken glass.
i have time to be a skeleton (lightheaded)i am all white noise -an amnesiac,melancholic,ipecac gums &the grey matter in betweenmy ears is cotton, tulle, &vile, vile boy,i wish i could spit outteethin the place ofwords & emeticsbutdead birds detach myskull from my throat, splitmy brain steam in two
-legend has it she possesses a serpentine mindmischievous,cunning,and downrightruthless an envoy of scorned maidens and a lilith in her own rightmen would fall for her and she treacherouslywould let them fallto her.
Identityi am aquixotic beingaddicted to wordsthe taste of summerand misery