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
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
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
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
Hookedhe got attachedlike velcrobut iwas fused to himwith super glueso whenhe pulled awayit stung me harder
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.
Umbrageousshe is a lionwith the starssewn to her cloakand i am a wolfwith a mindtattooed in charcoal. they will always see the stars
tenI've politely declined deathfor maybe the seventh timebut he's a rather persistentfellow; he never lets myfingerstray toofar fromthe trigger
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).
sixhe plucked six white rosesfor meand even though they'll diein a week,it's matchless to any other gifti've received
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.
CorrodeOne timeI pierced my skinAnd watched a seaExude from my wrists.I have decayed so much insideThat a single phobiaCould fray me apart
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.
catharsis.i.The devil watched me dreaming,kissed my wristsand painted my lips with blood.ii.I bartered for my place in heaven,but I was buried too deepto be heard.iii.He pushed meout to sea and Ivaliantly tried to drown.
-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
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.
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 was a malady, myselfmy tongue festers - mymouth a graveyard, iwither out thesetombstone teeth &s p i nmy head likecracked-metacarpalsadness; i neverreassemble. i,like tempest,i, the arsenical:i stay bone-bruised &sink, sink, s i n k i n g
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
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
the back side of a sharpie cigaretteoh, i've got thorns & fruit fliesrotting out the flesh betweenmy ribs. they fester in theserabbit lungs until i cough themup as mechanical mockingbirds;like nightwalkers, they peck mythroat into a crumpled napkin verse.
(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
DifferenceWhat is worsethan seeing yourselfin the personwhose throat you're grasping?When you realizeyou share the same sins,you wonder whatmakes you different from them.
Identityi am aquixotic beingaddicted to wordsthe taste of summerand misery