shatteredi watched youlay the darkest partsof yourself along my bed,kept you safe as theygrew violent.they may stillbite like razors,but your armorhas grown thicker.
5:20i went to the forestto purify my lungsthen i saw the thickand uglythree letter scari left in a slenderbirch, and wondered howi could let you poisonanother living thing.moths aren't afraid of pinstill they're stuck to a piece of styrofoam.
fivemaybe if i tear out myveins, replace them withflowers, stitch myself up withlace and ribbons, i'll be pretty
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
tenI've politely declined deathfor maybe the seventh timebut he's a rather persistentfellow; he never lets myfingerstray toofar fromthe trigger
sailyou were the boat that deliveredme happiness, crates filledwith flowers and honey.but anchors rust,ropes fray,and all boatssail away.
the scientistsso i guess the sicknesscame back. my cells are charred;so manipulated byfailed doctors and theirfaulty operations, you can't evendiscern the real me. oh well,aesthetics are trivial.days are ruled by Nirvana;the sweetest doses ofCobain and Grohl and Novovselic.nights turn into Sinatra, coolsheets and dizzy air. the calendaris swollen, about to perish. youtell me you'll do whateveryou can to reach the remedy.our beings' areacidic and basic.neutralizing antibodiessurge around our lips, healingevery unspoken nevermind.
twothese scars will meltwith time, but the emotionsare forever branded tothe hour that birthed them andthe strangers they belong to
Defeating a Mental Disorderthe sludge in my frontal lobes isbleaching white; a clear photonicpuzzle of what my thoughts usedto be. my mind feels about fivepounds lighter without the constantbombardment of negative chemicalsrushing through mushy grey matter.if summer were a medicinei'd take three doses everyday,injecting raw sunlight into myveins and swallowing your smilewith a heavy glass of water.my demons won't freeze, perhaps they'll burn
Moving OnAll I can tell you isI haven't gotten farwalking throughtwenty years of yesterday.
i am made of nights like theseativan boy, you cannot empty out this skull -not with a pen nor with a bullet. you canbe my hallowed head(case) for spitting outwords like teeth; oh, but i will only love youwhen you're weary. i will keep crows cagedbetween your lungs like veins, like palpitations.i will rot you through bones & car radios,but i will never get (you) out of your skin.
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
these bitter kids have sharper hipsoh, i am aching to pry apart this skull &meet the ghosts thumping at its insides.i'm just pining for a rib cage like afuneral pyre or a staircase;i want to bloom from thesebitter bones & waste -(until i'm the corpsesleeping in the casket)
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
a study in arthroscopy (manus)oh, i'll take these muddled words & cigarette burns,spit 'em out or sell 'em as cinema or cemeterial.i've got these dirty fingernails hooked like cat clawsinto my prey-heart through pericardium; i wanna tradein this light head(ache) to admire snapping bonesor splitting skulls 'cause i can't keep the talk cheapor the drum-beat outta (always best inside) my mind.my spine has never meant prowess; i've always been yourfavorite migraine, baby: all potential & no promise.
i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered lateone nightas we lay beneath theirgrandeur."what if i die today?" you asked.and i told you in that case,i'd see you by tomorrow.
fourdo not wish upona star, the starsare dead; the skyis filled with corpses
sewingyou can cut yourselffrom on personand stitch yourself toanother, but the oldcloth will alwaysbe there
now i see the stars.there was a time when icouldn't catch my breath whenever ithought about you , (crippled lungs and-boy, you hit me like an asteroid,there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,even withoceans of my tears cried onnights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,andfor a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,weighted to the ground andburied in myself, butwhere there is no light there are no shadows, andsometimes, i wonder if i miss me.yes, yes i do.i may not see the moon, but
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)
i don't have a dog1. i get up at ten.this is an accomplishment.by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you.to be honest, that part never goes away—but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangsand threatens to swallow everything i amif i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’stail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.he will not even touch his food until the sun hasset as deep as possible. he is giving you everychance to come back.i try to tell him there’s no use,that you will never come back.but dogs don’t understand things like that,don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’.they believe in the sound of a key turning a lockand the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome matno matter how many times they’ve heardthe car engine start and the crunch of gravel as it pulls away.2. this must be what missing you feels like.i have lived lifetimes in the minutes i keep breathing.i keep breathing. this is an accompl
.and they knew,they knew i'd gone -when they found me outside crouchedwith a string box and stick, singingi'm going to catch me my death,make him sick -now i sit in a gown that is whiterthan white, doesn't suit me,this ghost to myself -on the corridor bench with my kneestucked in under my chin, rattlingwith green yellow blue(i've told you, i know where i'm going)
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stopspewing pretty metaphors at me,for with each elaborate comparison,I feel a bit moredetached from this worldAnd maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,but would you beif you felt like the entire universewas resting upon your shoulders,and someone was just there saying:But you’re stronger than the powerful beatsof a butterfly’s wingsAnd maybe I do need more confidence,but would you exuberate itwhen the part you hated most about yourselfwere the freckles that have speckled your face for years,and someone was just there muttering:They’re not flaws,but rather stars that form constellationsYes, I can’t help but hateall those unrealistic metaphorsyou choose to pelt at me when I’m low,yet the irony is,I know that those beautiful wordsare realistic in your eyes,So I can’t hate you.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
specter boys have always looked best sinkinghe says,i want to count all 206 &feel the notches of your ribs -i want you, weary boy, tophase yourself down whileyou are burning inside out.i will seethe inside your skulllike thoughts, like cigarette filters;you will thank me as i molder in your marrow.
you're so blind.here i am drowningand you have no idea what to do,you're so lostand panicking.why don't you take your handsoff my shoulders?
the dictionary roommy best friend and i love reading together.when i long for his pulse against my lips,mine quickens like the nervous jitter of an addict.he cradles my face like a mouth carries a poembut his hands are shipwrecked masts, beaconsof a 2-year battle that lasts much longer.they shake at night from the withdrawals, hauntedby the ghosts slithering through empty pill bottles.for 2 years, my best friend didn’t know his own name.he hid it in his pocket like loose change he tradedfor bars of euphoria. the process was simple:crush 2 pills and inhale them with your eyes open.watch the dust float up into your nostrils like flecksof memory loss. dry swallow one for each syllablein my name. crush another and save it for later.every night, he trapped himself in oblivion;blind and stumbling, reaching for my bodyin a mirage of blackness.i was alone in a room full of dictionaries,trying to find the meaning behind everything.the spaces between my words doubled in distance.his hear
surgeryi promised not to scarmy skin. so i cut out mybrain and hurled it intothe river.just like cancer, the worst of me is dead.