Trying too hard to write something perfect

None of my words belong on the page

Maybe that means I should write something

But even as I am writing this, I know I could do better

I should do better

I…can’t do better, can I?

Incoherency is the cost

Of me trying to write when I am not in the zen state of mind

Does my writing mean anything if

it’s jumbled? Does it mean anything if I don’t entirely understand what I was trying to say?

I… maybe I should…

Stop.

But my thoughts keep racing

Do they matter?

I think they do.

I know they do.

Measure my dreams in grains of sand

A thousand nothing more than

The worth of a single pebble—

In the belly of a ravenous koi

Why must I always
feel like I am dying
The rusted cogs
Ceasing to breathe—
My conviction
Grinding to a halt?

Madness eats 
My crime is life
A reflection
Mirrored
In bloody sheen

It’s all too sterile,
All too white gray
The marked path
Traveled by droves
of certain men

Without value
I continue on
Diminished by 
My still-beating heart 

For on the rooftop
There is a weed
Damned be its growth
In direct path
Of an unforgiving sun

An Internal Dispute From Sleep Deprivation

Blatant words befalling blue lips

Smeared the color of sadness

Tri-coated depression

What is art to sadness but apples to applesauce

thefortymillionsomethingpoems

Some statement minus punctuation and declarations of woeful broken love

Gorge upon the sales of music to public ears

I gave my blood, the likes which you’ve never seen and apparently do not want

Pages of fine ink multitudesofwordsmeaninglesswords

The alternative framework lost—

Eaten in the mainstream, some cherry picker we have to thank for this

Poets ought to rip the world to shreds with a pen

Splash ink onto pavement, blacken the world into a deep void

Gross schemes, where the fuck is reality?

I accidentally threw it down the garbage disposal

But the corporations forced my hand

The meaningless throb the echoes of time ticking sand

Mind wrenching melting numbness pain

Contradictory hell

What more is left to do? What more is to be achieved?

Light a metal garbage can,

Set all the books on fire

And all the art as well.

Ichor of old gods

Pitter-patters solemnly

Gaia drinks her fill

—

Deafened ears 
Silent eyes
Rippled waters—
Reflecting murky skies

What remained
Laid in sullened tune
—With calla lilies
In godless demise

My organs wrung
Then clotheslined—
Like some
common rag

Discarded lungs—
Airbags for the worms
And my
once sharp tongue
Sits ’tween teeth
Delicately dead

This damp cavern
Punctured by 
A singular watery tree
The branches splay
Beams of light

Where I lay—
Skin haloed 
in mossy wreaths

Flowers before dusk

Curling from darkness,

How you shrink

So timidly inward

You fill yourself

With seas of fears

Though occupying

Minimal space

I would

Kiss your petals

If you

Loved me

||

Some nights I crave release
In loosed muscles
Over the beaming lights—
Polluted city skyline

Standing atop a tightrope
Roaming like a minor god
My insides disemboweled— 
Numbing immortality

I want to linger in apathy
No inhibitions,
without criminal feeling—
Lonely contentedness 

Breathing with intention—
Aeolus, commanding wind
My soul is drunk
Filled to the brim—
With hopes and dreams

Peace with the worms,

Consciousless things

How I’d like to join them

In holy matrimony

With the earth

As the skies weep

Crank me

Jack-in-the-box

Cricks of rusty parts

As music tinkles

Softly

Through floorboards

Dusty as the attic

And the locked chest

From where it came

Your fingers could

Draw lines

Into the age

Of that wooden box,

The one

With a precarious lid

It delights in your touch

Waits for the skip

Of your heart

When anticipation

Is empty

And

P O P

.

.

.

.

The spring dashes

Firmly into your eye

A lone thing

Without a clown’s company

Reinvention

Feels like a sin

i t’ s backpedaling

Don’t I deserve

To live

Without

A

Hi-polymer

Eraser

?

I gathered people like dewdrops

Collect upon a lonely leaf

They were made in the clouds

Of pollution and acid rains

I beckoned and waved—

The wind forced my hand

Yet upon my lonely branch

Ne’er a hopeful bird did land

Only dewdrops grew

Little parasitical things

They burned and ate

And I turned yellow with grief

Pocked with holes

In sickly sheen

Death beckons

And I hesitate

But the solid form

Appeared

So comforting

A being

A rubber wristband

Encircling a

Pale arm

Extended graciously

A plain white

Sterile shirt

Hung loosely

’round their form

And bed hair,

Bright eyes,

A smile

Innocently wise

I would lay

In their embrace

Nestled wordlessly

Drifting

Into peace

If Life had not

Eaten my soul

The Struggle for Originality

I found myself knee deep in poetry

Not knowing which direction to go

I settled, staying ’neath nonexistent leaves

Telling myself I’ll remain

Until the frost becomes much too cold—

Then, I could write of my

Fucking goddamn depression

Bass drop

It’s three o’clock in the morning

And I’ve been kissing individual framed photos

In my shrine of Poe Whitman Plath

I harbor such a pretentious heart

I could not bear to part with mediated prose

(Man these tumblr poets

And their penchant for simplistic thought)

—I’ve drunk so much irony in my tea

I can no longer taste its potent punch

I am so well-versed in the craft,

All my alliteration attempts are absolutely art

My words are like stars, night, dewdrops, love, eyes, the sunskyandmoon

I can write so fresh, I’ll write of farts

I’ve nothing to prove, nothing to lose

Whether I rhyme or not—

Conform or not—

There is nothing to gain

In being a contrarian.