I bleed so I cannot think of you

Pain so fierce nothing else has room

It is here I wish to live

In this haven of constructed wounds


Phantoms persist beyond flagellated walls

Malignant moments forever bound

Images rapacious and destructive

Destruction you claimed I called down


Steel can feel warm

A comfort of sorts

For whenever in pain

Bad things distort


Inevitably it fades

Endorphins mask what stings

If only they could relive real trauma

Relief only a medicinal bullet can bring





On a cliff I wait

Teetering on its edge

Below dark clouds form

Insidious nebulosus harboring despair, dread


Perched above the stratosphere

Few choices avail

Jump or linger

Given time, gravity prevails


The descent will hurt

Each time is worse

I try suggested remedies

Friends, family, love, these never work


Impacting the dirt

The only choice will be up

Unless I take one fateful step forward

Submitting to a grave, pre-dug


Decaying in that hole

Perhaps I will find solace

For the dead are impassive

Mere things the earth devours

Ultimately Verbose


Those days I want to see my hands coated crimson, excise incisors from my pitted knuckles, I write.  Outlets exist.  Most carnal.  Resisting crippling weight, gravities perpetual force, helps; squatting four hundred pounds, pulling a half-ton of dead weight satisfies the primitive, ape-lineal urges.

Writing, processing my feelings, soothes cerebrally.  I can say the things that would get me fired.  Commit unsavory, sometimes criminal acts, my thoughts, feelings, remaining hidden from critical judgments – prosaic therapy.  Journaling would serve a similar function, perhaps more effectively but through fiction, the writer has a chance to communicate with a readership.  Attractively package the thought.  Simply saying, it, feels cheap, something easily ignored.

Like an addict longing for the needle, the urge to write fiction, intelligently construct a compelling narrative around altruistic messages while exploring facets of the human condition – if I was skilled enough to execute this I wouldn’t bother saying it so plainly, will remain my opiate dragon, chasing it until my veins implode, and I lay defeated, internally rotting.