Just, He.

He showed me his room

Of corpses and ghouls

The things he couldn’t save

He told me their names

And tried to explain

It’s why he turned out this way


He brought me a bird

Swollen and still

Barely blinking through broken skull

He said he believes

That between him and me

This cold thing could be warm


Guilt ridden good boy

Drenched in unease

He only can love

Little dying things


The little bird died

The good boy cried

He was all shriveled up inside

He felt it was he

Who tore the bird

And robbed the thing of life


Now freckled and frail

Skin studded with souls

He can’t breathe inside his bones

He holds that cold heart

He’s losing control

And he begs to be alone.



little tiny fingers

hot water highlighting them like shaking glass

i breathe in the water

i must be grateful for the general shape of noses

so i can breathe in the water

bedsheets over wet body

this body tense and naked

it is pinned on to my brain

my brain looks like audio waves

that got put in a shredder

and then covered in glue and mashed into one

my brain sounds like heavy objects dragging at volume level 1

my eyes wires are coming loose

autofocus doesn’t work

brain lenses don’t fit

small fingers aren’t typing the things i feel don’t sound like the words i’m making

everything is weird

there are a million punctures in everything

it’s breathing too loud

Emotional Dependency

I have thoroughly and completely become emotional dependent.

Gone are those nights when I would ooze emotion all on my own, it was chaotic, colorful, and drowned me

But it was all from me.

And now?
My own high cannot compare to those given to me from some pretty fixation of mine

It’s not up to me

I am dependent.

All my highs and lows are on the shoulders of something I can never fully understand, much less predict

And at least when those shoulder were my own, I felt the constant shifting

But when I am only a fragment of the existence on which I depend,


Stagnant is never something I’ve been content with.

Before, I would drown, and now,

I only breathe when you care to glance at me.

yeah, you

i remember breathing with you

rolling in grass

laying in grass

you’re allergic to grass and it was cold out

the wind blew my hair all over our conversation

yet when i remember being with you,

though it was cold then,

It sure is warm now.


Anxiety’s hands, consistently caressing your heart.

Everlastingly petting that sweating, flickering light

And every so often-

(you can tell seconds before it begins)

It begins.

Her fingers twist around and up your throat, making their way, sliding against your eyes

Jutting out through tear ducts.

Her pretty nails painted with your silly insides.

Her other hand gently pushing down on your lungs

If you struggle, she smiles, she presses harder.

It is finished.

She collects herself to rest,

Yet again,

With your heart in her hands.

a letter to a friend

they never noticed


they never saw

the things you couldn’t help but see

you, you, you

the poet, the worker, the thinker, the do-er

the intellectual, the cultured, the enlightened

the whole, awakened human

not aimlessly marching

in some void behind retinas

but seeing everything

all at once

and it overwhelmingly, incandescently, screechingly

blinds you

and, while playing spectator to the flames dancing on your deteriorating eyelids

you can hardly persist

you – the strong, the whole-

can barely walk on

so it must not be possible

that these people

every single one

not a single one

can love how you love

can write how you write

can think how you think

can see how you see

you must be Special

Alone and Special

tell yourself you’re special

so you can try and fall asleep


I wanted to address my addiction to People.

Oh, how careless of me.

Of course,

Of course the world is crawling in you

A strut, a laugh, an eyelash-

there are warped pieces of you all around me.

I’m surprised it took me this long to notice,

And to fall out of love with you,

for the time being,

I must fall out of love with it.

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Rebel Boy

my rebel boy

a mouth of poetry, uncensored.

tongue of meaningless synonymous

a lover with nothing to love

so he makes it all up

he conjures a muse out of nothingness

then, and only then, can he write,

and speak, and sing as he pleases

with this sketch of love, he can finally, and freely, think



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it grew somewhere, sometime (and you were probably sleep deprived)

It’s all burnt down now

and it hurts there

rubbish, rubble, dust with a tree’s memory

but it was once a big, beautiful story

with big, beautiful people,

humming dynamic and bittersweet melodies

and a half-assed moral

inserted because it needed a bow

and you needed a purpose.


But now, its gone and there’s room for more

all the oxygen dripped right out of your eyeballs

and the music is dialogue now

in some short film somewhere

with your name stylistically, perhaps modestly, kissing the screen

with those big beautiful people

even bigger now

and those burnt down trees

painted over


there’s room for more now

but it’s oxygen depraved there

and still toxic

and there’s noticeably-lit ash everywhere you look

and, darling, you’re drowning in it-

and you’re suffocating with all this heat,

i know,

but it’s time to start again



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