Robert J. W.

1.

You pound one fist

against gravity

and the other

against chance.

The bruises add themselves

into an apocalypse,

shattered glass

from childhood vanities

replacing the summer's light drizzle.

You gaze into a blue light nightmare

to usurp the one in which you live

but the line between the two

blurs to the point of psychosis

so you drink,

you smoke,

you inject

every poison you can

just to numb

the choices that you

and everyone you know

have made out of desperation

or ignorance.

2.

If you look close enough

through those eyes

that have begun to resemble

a dead sea,

the humanity

starts to bloom;

every chaotic twitch

made on this dance floor

will begin to coalesce

into a ballet,

every bead of blood

will fill a god's coffee cup

and you

will not crawl

from the explosion

but stand facing it

as if you own

I held hands with impatience

and my skin bruised.

I opened my ribcage

to let the breeze in

and I was finally able to breathe.

I've been told

by old friends

and disembodied heads

that the world is collapsing.

I don't know nor care

if they are correct

because regardless

of the expiration date,

I'm staring into the sun

so I can finally see

and nothing will matter

other than the afterimages

that guide me to the desert

where there is a sandcastle

I was able to build

"Tears that Pirouette"

I don't know if I can forgive myself

for this stillborn emotion

that I've let rot beneath my bones.

I daydream like a stray dog,

a monochrome perspective

on this life of infinite spectrums.

With these hands

that only ecpathy can hold,

I write treaties

with nylon and steel

but my name

appears jagged

and faded

on the dotted line.

Is this what I want?

A "legacy" built on melodrama

and distorted black box recordings

from the crisis lines

that could only buff the surface scratches

on this battered casket

that I built in conjunction with life?

I'm burning the diaries

consisting only of notes

to those that could never find me,

to shout my strengths

into the inevitable smoke

that comes with catharsis,

and though I may cough up

every second I have spent

wishing end-stage disease

on the world that cradled me

despite my decaying bite,

I will smile

with tears that pirouette

because even midnight

becomes 12:01

after enough forevers