soggy, soggy noggin noodles

curse of manual breathing

curse of word you can't remember

you write a lot about death, do you want to die?

not anymore.

not for a long time now.

but even if i still wished it so,

death does not want me.

she does not wait by the door

for any of my blood.

in my family,

we live long.

despite the terrors.

be it torn flesh or broken bone,

the inevitable recovery is all we know.

always the most minimal risk

from fatal incidents--

time after time after time.

i am no different.

many times

i've kissed the reapers neck.

but the hand never reaches,

and the scythe never swings.

sickness strikes once

and then never again.

our bodies decay before our brains

and we twist into living remains.

we are our own coffins.

waiting.

"a miracle,"

every damn time.

this is why

i do not fear her.

she never lurks in my shadow,

never glances my way.

a ghost to the mother

of all the dead things.

the irony does not escape me.

i know

that when i finally drift into the nothing,

i will be rotting already--

above the earth, walking.

i've never broken my bones,

nor ever quite managed to drown.

neither have i suffocated in my slumber,

despite so many encounters.

piercings heal in half the time,

and pain is only pressure.

i go wherever.

i do it all.

because in my family,

we live long.

how do i know if my poetry is good?

there has never been such a thing

as 'good.'

in the world of art

there is only

those things which hold captive the heart

and tug at the soul.

those things that haunt.

those things that haunt.

ceaseless.

the first thing i ever learned

about the way of writing,

is that it lives.

it carries you,

the words come without your permission.

there is a sentience

in a way,

and isn't all life precious?

you teach it to walk

with a gift of the first sentence,

and then it runs.

and all you can do

is hold it's hand

and watch.

a writer is a god,

and religion teaches us

that gods can do no wrong.

you are your own governor,

so fear no failure.

if a writer is a god,

there will exist atheists

who will not be moved.

and just the same,

there will come the devout

and the faithful--

those who worship words.

so bring forth the yearning

so they can never look away.

pick up the pen

and prosper.

where can i find inspiration?

in anything that stirs the slumbering heart.

look around.

up at the sky any time the sun becomes the moon.

when the stars blink awake.

walk in a quiet park and listen closely

to the nothing.

an old slide.

an abandoned skate park.

the snow-laden earth in the dark streets

of a sleepy town,

where the street lights still burn orange.

a stray cat devouring a bird barely-breathing,

but breathing nonetheless.

perseverance.

unlit hallways.

dilapidated concrete landmarks.

local teens smoking weed under a bridge

in the chill of autumn.

remember youth

and nostalgia.

feel the rhythm of the you that still breathes.

put it in a cup

and dump it on a page.

the rest comes later.

when do you die?

you die when its all been done.

do what you like,

live your dream and such--

or try to.

have hopes

and then see them through.

and when you no longer have the want,

or perhaps outlive the regret

of wishing more,

it's time to go.

it's terrible of me,

really truly awful,

but just today

a dear friend of mine told me

if her lover ever left,

she would go away too.

and i said

i wont be there

to see it happen

but that i would hold her hand

until she was ready

to go.

i don't want her to go,

to succumb to the forever-dream.

but i could not stop her

if that was her desire.

because she wants for nothing else.

she has no dreams,

no plans,

except those that feature a family.

and she fears.

and i fear for her.

and he is the last.

but in my heart,

i know,

it will never come to that.

and this is when

i take comfort in the fact

that i am never never wrong.

what is a poem?

it is the song of the heart.

it cannot tell its own stories

so let it speak to you

be the words it cannot conjure

and listen.

strip my flesh

and chew my bones,

salt the earth

and wreck my home,

this is where the fight belongs.

i have always layed here.

call my name

in the dark,

i'll be there

to miss the mark.

things are rough

and im half spent.

this life has been

way past when.

i am always out there.

shut my doors

and lock me in.

my face is pale

my freckles lost

here am i

withering to dust.

have you ever seen me?

shoot my foot

and kick my head,

use your words

to slice my neck.

see me now

above the dead,

and know that i

haven't tried to end you

(there is time yet)

snatch my tongue

and crush my teeth,

make sure i

cannot speak.

you have never known me.

i love her.

i love her.

because

when i asked

if she would like to know my secrets--

the truths i have coveted

for as long as i've lived.

the terrors of me

which i only voice in the dark,

the faces of me that should frighten any other--

she said with all the confidence in the world:

"yes. yes i would."

and that was more than anyone

had ever ever done.

and so i told her.

and after everything

she had the gall to whisper

"i still love you,"

slaying me in the sweetest way.

and i will never be the same.

but i suppose

this is the way it's always been.

i fear i'd slit any throat

if only she asked.

i'd walk straight into traffic

if she was holding my hand.

i'd wage war.

there would be casualties.

there would be casualties.

and terrific violence

to soothe my damned soul.

a bath most abhorrent

in the smoldering flesh and bone.

a feast.

if only she asked.

devotion.

i think this is devotion.

it consumes me--

she consumes me.

and who am i to deny her so?

i'd drown myself to curry her favor.

and i can only hope

that in return

she'll come to crave my flavor.

i fear that i am a terror.

something wicked and incurable

twisted from the womb.

i fear i was brined in vinegar

rather than in broth

i have been cruel.

i am still cruel

but the people i have loved

look me straight in my eyes

and proclaim me their savior

in their eyes i am kind

but had they looked at me in those quiet moments

when i could smell their misery

and asked me earnestly

wholly and without a doubt

if i would slay them

i wouldve.

and i fear

even through their bloodied teeth

and a dagger through the soul

they wouldve coveted me still

as their hero

with tar coated fingers

and a mouth made of wounds,

it takes everything

and comes back for seconds.

it gnaws on my collarbones

and gnashes at my ankles.

it feeds on me

and there is no remorse.

after so long in the mirror

i find a terrible truth:

"you are no-ones hero"

and i crumble into ash and soot.

i am lost to a nameless past.

i am the forgotten.

...and i am no-ones hero.

3:38 am

my flesh

outgrows me.

up and out,

away from my place in the sand.

faster, faster--

i cant keep up.

what are these bumps?

the casing of my being,

it abandons me.

it spreads

like the boils of plague

down my arms

and across my breast.

they ache--and my hips too.

without warning.

sharp and merciless.

beneath my rightmost rib

at the bottom of the ladder,

a knife.

i measure

puncture per breath.

my body abandons me

and i wilt

and i wither

in the silent decay.

in the gentle swaddle of a slow death.

and i wonder

if this is the only way.

7:57 pm

because the fifth time

was the first time

and

on the tile in the bathroom,

dying for the last first fifth time,

my eyes glued shut

and head too-worn,

all that i could conjure

was that

i thought it would be different.

(death was so much quieter than i'd imagined)

(it's never been quite like this.)

seven lifetimes i never lived

and the girl i never got to love,

(i saw her in my memories

of a past i'd yet to live)

i wondered

would they miss me?

and through the haze

a voice--

a moment,

and then a memory.

(the words are lost to me)

and what would my family think?

still as a corpse

and twice as cold

burning from the inside

as peace meets regret

(i wish my sister were here)

would they be disappointed?

that my precious words

to be the last

were drowned in the vomit--

all i let pass

(would they resent that i was silent?)

i pondered

and pondered

until i slept.

8:24 pm