With you

I am drowning

In despair

I breathe

Incurable sadness

Not air

༄

hate never fumed in me as much as it has since i last saw you

dead weeds ripped from my roots and the hate swooped through

transplanted and bloomed all ready to weave around like your noose

it attracts all toxic traits, greed and rage

consuming its prey, there is no dying light only a blinding one

i cannot go gentle, i cannot go at all

rage, rage, there is no good night

only hate eats

and love breathes steadily,

then falls asleep

on your chest

where nothing beats.

poison remains in my eyes

because you’re forever not in sight

but i cut hate’s stem now and again

hoping you’ll revisit and make your amneds

or that this revival will

somehow mend the wounds of hate,

so my soul could breathe again

we would talk about the rain

and wish it would pour on us for days

hope for long trips to sights

we’ve never seen before.

letting things slip,

the mind unravels what once was

right in front of us

but which now lays behind

with you beneath to only wish

on the possibility

of our dreams

being alive,

wherever you reside.

open wounds laid on the bed

safe for them to take their meds

open wounds make people cringe

too gruesome for them to understand

open wounds from a pen

bleed red

from delirious wolves who devoured the flesh 

open wounds from your own head

written for all to live and say aloud instead

you wander through the waves

but your body lays buried

and your philosophy decays

each day you attempt to salvage our moments

where our lips met or cursed

where our hands gripped or stayed loose

and though the past is over and done with

you’ve created waves to crash through my brain

where these moments leak to my mind

giving your philosophy new life

and you remain through the salvaged kisses and moments

until i join you for what is left of our voyage

conjure up from my mind,

fall onto the paper

spill out of my mouth,

be the mess that was left behind.

i’ll clean it up

fix you up

into the pristine, undented figurine

that watches loose ends unravel further

creating endless spells of tragedy

for all to feel

and for you to see silently.

eternal gaze

stuck in my brain

is beginning to fade

because you’re away

in another space

trying to cement yourself

even when your soul,

will never be erased

i only see you in sleep,

where nothing is real

and time doesn’t exists

Endless escapades and

earnest midnight dreams

Haunt the world after dark,

beneath a sad moon’s gleam

A breath taken,

But not a second passes by

—You could bike to the stars

The once taut rope

Loosened and stretched far

There are spirits that come

To fill souls and liquor cups

Gold and flashing dresses

Solid to the touch

What wonders exist

In the corners of night

Oil lamps, candlelight,

Dewed eyes sparkling bright

They all conjure such rise,

These late hours

Swathed in shadow—

Amidst fantastical lies

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

The night is illuminated
By the blue light
Of my computer screen
Blazing into my brain
Wrenching out my fears
Grown hot in the dark

My hair is still damp,
The shampoo smell
Sinking into warm fabrics
Joining the evidence
Of other late nights—
Quiet nights—
By weakly typed poetry

My fingers feel old
Tired and worn 
—And by four o’clock,
They await certain doom

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

Warmth emanates from

the singular chimney

Housed within the heart

Of a drafty mansion

It’s where the deer go

To lie upon rickety floorboard

As sparrows acquaint themselves

With the abandoned rocking chair

Preening their worries away

Serenity melded with serendipity

The course of the universe

Ivy stretching over bricks

Decomposition of matter

And the soul

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.

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

||

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

?

The Haunted Ceramic Figures of My Childhood

My ceiling is crusted with stars

It brings with hesitation, old memories

Chipped ceramic figurines

Cherub lips, empty gazes

Some were glazed matte,

Others shone glossy

There was a plastic

Glow-in-the-dark unicorn as well

The past hums

A soft lullabied tune

It creeps up your spine

And into your heart

Like ice

The old, dusty window ledge

Where those old figurines sat,

Ate cobwebs and glared out

At passerbys

The paint would stick to

Each small pedestal

Baked under the sun—

They would grow hot summertime come

I would touch them as a child,

Sometimes make them kiss

My fingers collided with their skin roughly

They were gritty, like fine-toothed sandpaper

Cross and unwelcoming they were

Like they had little spiteful souls

That looked at the first floor lawn

In contempt

Perhaps I should have known

It was how all things went

Visible and forgotten

Left for the next apartment owners

f(x)

I would like Math to love me—

Show me the world succinct

Truths and certainties

Laid upon numbers and variables

Only the white of paper

And the black of pen

The value of tangibility

The charted minimums

And maximums

Knowing where

The function of life

Curves and bends

—And whether

Pain and suffering

Ends.

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

Suffer blue skies

Dart games in the dark

Poison slipped

into white paper cups

Flowers spilled

Their petals splayed

Like droplets of blood

Cry a small stream

In a foggy shower

Hate inanimate things

For not having to feel

Despise cumulus clouds

Then cry some more,

This time with rain

Soaking your socks

Then you can

Be dramatic in the bathroom

Wet hair dripping

Eyeliner name:

Spooky clown

Because you love to

Wrap depression

In a romantic flurry

And

Your conscience

Becomes a blur

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.

lowercase

the utility

so poetic.

like i’m

merely speaking

words

words

words

bared meaning

the art

in the obvious

thanks rupi kaur

not sure

if i hate you

but boy,

do i love

red wheelbarrows