Tagged: mental

Ticonderoga

3262

Engraved

On a Ticonderoga

I reached to the back of my skull

And found the same number engraved

In me

Serendipitous utensils

I know how silly

Love can be

But why not believe,

Yellow slender;

Soul mate.

We are writing utensils

Intertwined

Flowing

Like letting go of a manuscript

In a windstorm

But you hurt me so.

Do I use you?

Or do they use me?

Were you here?

Is your motives for nothing,

But profit?

Is your heart not in it,

The way it once was?

It will feel like years

Until I see you again

But I’ve never loved

Like I love the pen

And once the door closes

I’ll curse your name

Wish the lips never parted

Slithering tongue

The picking of

flesh from bone,

My vulture

My muse

Moving me to new grounds

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Starboard Apocalypse

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I’m just doing what I can

To survive

To post pone the end

Immoral, bitter, dirty

Pull out your dictionary of insults

The price to keep this ship from sinking

I get so sick of patching

Splintered wood,

Leaking cracks

If screaming out to the

Pale men on shore

And getting no response.

I’d give anything to dock,

But grabbing the nose of my dingy

And pushing it away

I sail in search

Of a new shore.

A place I can rest, escape

the pangs of reality.

Stagnation in the center of the sea.

Writing to Routine

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Making plans

Manipulating phrases

Chiseling poetry:

Fallen, forgotten, worlds

Nostalgia, fear

Connection, obsession.

7 worded nights

Fighting after they’ve taken

Your will to live

Fighting with nothing left to lose

Fighting with fingers

Mashed into

A potato fist

Clashing batons

Whipping, slashing rounds

And I’ll stand in the middle of

The battleground

With little, but

Crippled fists

From bashing faces

Into misconceptions

Of “art”

Only the greats would envy

If they could only see

If the product

Wasn’t so impermanent

As a newly born author

Picking up his first pen

In the street

Outside his first

Wholesale purchase

Of cheap liquor.

 

Finding Blood in the Wreckage

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 He is a creation of mine

A figurative shit

I forced onto the page

Blowing a gasket

How much pleasure does it take

Before it isn’t about love anymore?

How man slits before the wrists

Are no longer clenching an escape rout?

There is a green fog

Fallen through the tree canopies

Into the indignant

Hazed mind

I want the music

Mindset, words

That makes stone walls crack

That makes men feel.

Where to Find Relief.

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That life

In all its tediousness

All its suffering

With a  white washed brain

And a luxurious

Lobotomy

(Day time television)

It will all end

The thread will split

The engine will run out of gas

In the center of oncoming traffic

I grab the wheel, brace myself

For another reality

At the center

Transcending in blue light

The acceptance of love

Impermanence

I am not bitter

 

Math 114

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I don’t give a shit

About your xs and ys

When I realize the best

Option are that these pupils

At the center of America’s

Eye of destruction

Watching over the world

Making sure we’re the only tyrant.

The best option being

Unless the all mighty They

Are too dumb to

Understand simple minded

Sentences

For I fear if not

The world

And colleges everywhere

Will be buried alive

In biochemical warfare

And the largest of all of history’s

Mass grave

Filled with the ashes

Of the black

Hispanic

Asian

Nonwhite

Poor

Knotted Genes

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Have you ever been so ready

To die?

To unlatch the tumbler

And walk out into the night

To close your eyes

And feel their desperate hands

Run rampant

To pillage, raid, ravish

Why is it that only the corners

Are stained with blood?

Why is it that shadowed territories

Are endless black abysses;

A primitive trap to desire?

How is good?

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Como es Bueno?
How is beautiful?

It is unique

It is countless endings

Never ending

Until it ends

I know what I’m writing

Is shit.

It is unworthy of a quick

Read through

And the point is lost

Even on me.

Maybe if my mind

Consisted of blue jays

Swift flight to infinite window pane

Hurtling towards death

I can pick up my broken beaked demons

Nurture and love it

Better than

I do myself.

At a Moonless Night

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Howling at a moonless night

It’s so easy to translate my rejection

To your tragedy

I cry out in pain

To think of all of the

Crescent’s I serenade

With wailing nostalgia

With returning moments

When I have nothing else

When reality hurts too

Much to bare without

You

Howling to an empty night

I translate rejection to

Self-destruction