Suicide thoughts on lock,
On God,
I can be healthy or wealthy,
But not both,
and these thoughts hit me in their stealth mode.
A camouflaged sniper in the window of hotel hell,
with pot shots aimed at me like I'm a Kennedy.
A viper poised to strike in the night,
biting me in my own voice,
hoisting an ocean of whiskey like it was my only choice.

Choked on a rope of prescriptions dictated but not read,
milligrams spiraling the threads,
for the viral infection of dread.
White coats voting to soak me with anesthesia in my head,
Numbing me down until I'm knocked out on the ground.
Pause just a minute before I finish,
let's drop it down, chop, and screw it,
Cut the double talk loose.

You want me
freely medicated until I've abdicated everything to the point I'm assimilated into a system hyperextended by apathy.
A perpetual victim fastidious in the pursuit of legal dope slingers holding out hands and pointing fingers.
I'll stick by the viable herbs curbing my emotions and talk to God when I catch a depressed notion.

-

Small victories are steps on a staircase to the most grand view you can't even imagine.
Remember to celebrate them. They're taking you where you want to go.

-

I slit my wrists for my tenebrous soul to bleed onto pages, and the droplets arrange themselves into lines.

-

When I read Julius Caesar,
the feeling wrapped around me.

Especially when I read the line

E tu, brute?

I knew that exact feeling intimately.

-

Not everyone is going to have your back.


Keep climbing that mountain anyway.

-

Explosive thoughts spraying shrapnel into the global spin,
nuclear weapon words with the tongue as its firing pin.
Shockwaves ripping fault lines for a continental drift,
shifting circuits deepening the ravine of the neural rift.

Thunderous strikes plunging into a walled city,
reinforced concrete crumbling under the weight of vulnerability.
Armies of thoughts holding back the vitriolic god's wrath,
holding the phalanx until the treacherous storm should pass.

Lightning's crashing fist raining down for this apocalypse,
fire raging into wind swept spires smoking against defeats eclipse.
Valiant lines reassemble against supernal obliteration,
until a man painted in brass stands opposed against the visceral god of destruction.


— % &A full sprint with a spear tucked tightly, leaping away from monsterous asteroidal hands,
blood is oozing mid-pant in the cold sweat for this rising of a last stand.
A brassy brazen creature locked eye to eye with an abyssal mountain of obsidian fire,
another crashing tide of embers greeted by bracers latching on with ire.

The sound of the sear sizzling with a warriors muffled scream as the arm raises,
how many was he doing this for besides himself as his heart ran mile long races?
On the burning precipice, the charred bottoms of feet become air bound with his spear tip,
a gliding arrow in the socket of a beast to be plunged further from grip and the sway of hips.

Ear splitting echoes from the monster as they both fall,
One banished for a time and the other to recover into their thrall.
The hero and the monster vehemently opposed to one another in the same space,
though they may be polar opposites, they still possess the same face.


— % &

-

I'm not fighting for anyone's attention.

You've already told me what was important by what you didn't do.

-

Exhausted by all of the words
that drip like a faucet.
tripped up by the catalyst,
anxiety that seems to keep nagging me.
Bagging me and tagging me,
i'm just missing a toe tag
to be dragged off into obscurity.
Uncertainty is certainly taking its pound of flesh
from rounds of pen jabs that make brain stabs.
Everything I write,
even if it's contrite,
is supposed to be a nebula of prose
that sinks into your soul.

Writing something ten times
only to be empty lines,
my thoughts are a masochist
cutting themselves in fine lines,
It doesn't matter the words
or rhymes,
they all splatter,
caught under my guillotine
that's chopping up my dream.
Then I take a shift,
Trying to push every paper
that my quill is hitting,
to get it in front of everywhere someone is sitting.
— % &For my thoughts
to drop flying elblows
like it's a tornado filled with arrows.

Everything I jot down,
Isn't in a market to bought now,
starkly I advantageously
fight until until every thought
is fought.
Twenty four hours isn't enough,
All of my combinations
Are vanquished before they rise,
Because
Nothing is ever good enough in my eyes.

— % &

-

Shrouded timorous whispers off beyond deciduous faces,
scrawling words put as calligraphy to be brushed on the wall.
Insidiously injected, creating the ink jet cloud in a conversational space,
camoflaging with their paint in the shade of double talk to be sprawled.

Cavitation bubbles formed in gasoline to rain down as an inflammable hurricane,
A cascading storm quenching the apricated thirst from its splattering caress.
Ignited by the flint chipped out from the mines of their ego by pick axes of phantasm pain,
the swirling chasm of oil rich pyre flaring its cherry glowing obliterating arm to imaginary sins confessed.

Obliteration was just decimation, and consequently, you've spent your time haphazardly,
Fissuring under the gravitational specifications of your abysmal tar lined speculations.
All the conflagration licking your lips from your matchstick tongue so sensationally saucy,
injudicious ones, pyres don't browbeat those made of fire despite your wicker information.



— % &Bramble lies interwoven in an irreproachable snow laden sheep in disguise,
Gain perspective, be more introspective, chase a new internal directive to be on par with the truth.
Hell, with its immortal brimstone lakes, can't even chortle at a woman scorn seeking a portal of demise,
Consider the bitter imposition creating volition in the well of a soul for man who has nothing to lose.

Betwixt by your vipers bane that severed us in twain just as you in your priestly robes ordained.
Casting me as a meteor to a distant shore from the mount of the congregations ornate pew.
All of those grandiose efforts with cohorts exhorted a story for sewing needles pin prick of pain,
test my mettle, carve the word devil, just remember when the dust settles that I'm coming for my due.



— % &

-

In my grandfather's woods, i used to romp and play for hours where it seemed like the sunlight just never seemed to fade.

That was until the day I cleared the tree line and day switched to dusk with all of the police calling out for me that I never heard until I crossed over into the yard.

-