Emotional Rollerfuck.

  • The shower runs.

    It sprints through my ears.

    Break everything but character.

    Break nothing but myself.

    Light cracks through the door.

    It renders me still.

    Deflection. The ruse.

    The red herring was always the muse.

     Breath held on a word.

    I wait to be stifled.

    A shadow is cast.

    Water drips down.

    Clothes folded neat.

    He moves through my veins.

    Poison evermore swallowed.

    But nothing is killed.

    The care is kept deep.

    My elbow is held.

    And then he lets go.

Black Tuesday on a Blue Sunday

The sense of rejection
The fear gets lost
The style gets good
The junction is here
There is always a point
The distance is close
I can’t see it now
A gentleman’s cap
A loose conversation
I passed the point
Fuck the silhouette burned
In the lids of my eyes
Your face is stained
Upon the face of my thought
And all that you have
Is the rest of your life
And all that I have
Is a stolen ballpoint
The billiards, the camels
The hands, the scent
The stare, the cats
I never came with intent
The best, the most
I’d never render less
Because I’d offer more,
But then again, you never made the point.

Ode to the Spirit Animal

Resin from the glass
It’s not suicide with no note
From the corner of my eye
I stare far too long
An exit for each room
Not surprised I see it now
Easily the martyr
I put it all together well
Only for the moment
So unfair of me
Once I could’ve deserved
But I did everything
Now I would never stop
Stay through to the end
So I stand in the crowd
Set fire to my soul
Destroy the lives of many
So I will never ruin you

The Dust in the Bottle

Motions strong as ever

Notions running thin

The sharp contrast of maturity

Blood trickles from the blade

The lack of suicidal tendencies

Where now do I belong?

Normality the sickness evermore

Cognition sloppy at its best

The light there at the end

A pretty lie, like all the rest

The eye contact examined

Silent rays then marked with “X.”

He kisses like tomorrow exists.

With the blindfold I can see.

Stones come lifted, truth bear and raw

I can do everything but believe

Words take flight, identity dies

But not before he kills me.

Pool Table Tournaments

I used to tell a good story.

Today I stutter and utter nothing but a guess of what is expected to be.

Striving to deliver an image of what I think he wants.

I was never good with the arts and crafts.

I’m almost to my late 20’s, the place where originality goes to die.

Creativity is gone. I would bow out gracefully.

But I left dignity long ago.

I don’t know how the snowman got on my fridge.

The last time I checked, he was cast aside.

There is so much more that I will never admit.

This is going to be a good year.

In the presence of doers,

I aspire to die.

The Cons of Making It to Thirty

With my knees on the floor.
Elbows to the mattress.
Forsaken lovers dance.
Across the lids of my eyes.

I’m not a sinner.
I just came from confession.
One Act of Contrition.
Three Hail Mary’s.

I’m not a heartbreaker.
I came home alone.
One bold, red tattoo.
Three feet of severed hair.

My eternal penance.
For a broken word.
Is a ball and chain.
With a broken lock.

I paid for individuality.
With a happy home.
And unborn children.
The condemnation of freedom.