Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will love me again

Wear my flesh like rind and reclaim my sweetness


I am not dying yet, but I am not living         and I am thirsty

For days, dazed and drugged on dirt’s divinity, brown knees


Nestled under the willow tree, the sun promises to purify me

Before the night swallows it whole, and regurgitates it tomorrow.


Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will shatter my shame

Shed my sin, kiss palm to palm and nail a cross above my bed


Rid myself of impiety and feel what it feels to be clean.

I will walk the veins of the forests and trail the spines of the hills


Forage for berries and fall stupidly in love, over and over and over

With the art of existence and one day I will mean it when I say


I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.

Here we go again.

Another poem focused
on the past, focused on
sins.

Another stanza of a
pain so deep inside,
that there’s no way out
from within.

Days go by and it never left,
Depression, obsession, and
a little possession,

It’s demonic,
and not right.

But suffering
never ends.

Breathe. Inhale. Live. Die.

Smoke and mirrors,
all the time.

Here we go again.

Another poem,
another line,

Written and signed

By the artist who lost
the will to live and survive.

I haven’t given up,
But the energy inside me
has dimmed over time.

Life has swallowed me whole,
And I’m caught in the tide of a
never-ending spiral,
Drowning at every word.

Will I make it out of
this storm, or be carried away
by the waters, no sign of life
and screams left unheard?

I’m content with suffering,
but this emptiness inside me,
persists without warning.

I forgot how to feel,
Forgot how to smile,

The last time I felt
something,

I haven’t felt that
way in a while.

And so life
reminds me,

That no matter
what I do, or where
I go,

My problems always
follow me, even when
I’m alone.

I haven’t given up,
And I haven’t broken
down,

But I know my
problems won’t go away
until I’m six feet underground.

I cannot help it.

I hev limitid leeway.


I must bee handy.

a paragraph, written a million times
doesn't remain the same cause the words
are constantly changing themselves,
and you are as well.
a fire that burns through the night
may seem bleak compared to the brightness
of a brand new sunrise,
but at the end of the day
it's not the amount of light that counts
but the strength to survive again.
and people are not some constructs
to be created and disassembled at whim.
they have their own voices
and their own incredible stories to tell,
and you do as well.

Warmed up by the sun
Cooled down by the rain
Illuminated by the moon
Serenaded by the birds
Comforted by the breeze
Fed by the plants
Accompanied by the living
And reminded by the dead

Even if nothing else works
Looking at all the other things
I know I'm so blessed

I ask you, what is math?
What are equations?
Factored life.
I charge it is living,
Senseless pained observations which we must make
So as to live another day, so as not to perish early
And die before a just time;
The degrees of life are right.
Man must stand *****, stiffen your spine,
But remain relaxed.
Straighten out your ethics, your morals;
Never forget from where you came.
Your ancestors, this planet.
That you are just in another herd.
No really different than any other animal,
Only in our intelligence.
Which is itself, a gift.
So give thanks to mother nature.
She could use it