I’m searching for a way

To express these persistent screams

Living beneath these eyes

Crafting nightmares out of dreams


I’m searching for a way

To surpass these sadden seas

But I hold on to my Kraken

Swallowing the beast within me


Is there no place?

To let insecurities come to pass

To burn amongst the sky

To take wings in Earthly drafts

Is there no place?

To drown the insistent thoughts

To wither them to the bone

To expose them till they rot


I forget there is no place

To home creatures of my kind

The unforgiving weathered world

Leaving me behind


I forget there is no place

To embrace who I desire

My creature clawing outward

Set these streets on fire



Feeling at home within yourself

at some point you stepped outside yourself

for a smoke or a breath of fresh air

and when you tried to get back in touch with your body

you found that calling it home was not the same as feeling welcomed there


so, you vandalized the structure and punched holes in the walls

for a motive to continue self-destruction

and when you were smothered in debris missing your bed

you found that you couldn't even get sleep in a place of such head corruption


too far gone to decide to think happy thoughts

for fooling yourself can barely even compose a foundation 

and when you asked for help no one could help you in a way that didn't enrage you

you found that your motivation was to deter and hinder pro-creation


somewhere you got tangled in the web of someone much like you

for they were afflicted with the same burden in their heart

and when you told them that you loved them 

you found that to have that reciprocated you must love yourself as a start


confused and violated and sick of yourself

for you couldn't extract emotion from anything 

and if you did it was unpleasant or placed on a damned old shelf

you found that songs you knew by heart you could no longer sing


at some point you stepped outside yourself

for a smoke and a breath of fresh air

and when you tried to get back in touch with your body

you found a corpse with cobwebs in its stare



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In a Pit at Wit's End

Stir crazy with an anchor to condemn

me to the depths of whatever, wherein

I might have been left to fester if not

for my hatred of the smell of the rot.

I'll wield my shackles like two morning stars;

careless of the blood I spray while swinging,

ringing the changes by cast iron flail

and lusting for guts to rend with my nails.


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Oil Spill at the Conservatory

Sun-baked oil slick, foisted on two legs;

tell me this is commonplace for you.

Unfit to wander, yet wandering through

blooming meadows bereft of their shade --

aiding the process of putrefaction

by virtue of your crude, creeping splay.

And when you're stalled and coagulated;

making puddles with deceptive depths,

you'll be stepped on by the amiable

and oblivious tulips in turn.

You could cling by your teeth to their laces;

force them to stumble - plant in your bed,

but there's little for which to be taken

from a seed that shuns daylight, instead

of growing where it knew it would prosper.





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He wasn't made to feel feeble.

Cleaved at the knee - not at the time.

Perfectly enabled and quick,

his feet would still catch under stones;

like the idiot he'd once been,

before his skull was welded shut

and his thoughts were kept and anchored.


Bubbles on the seal went seeping:

mercurial globes, dripping pitch

into every thinking recess.

He abated, hesitated,

then let it spread, flourish, and fell;

cracking the ground upon impact

where the chrome of his dome met dirt.


He watched skies from prone positions.

His diction slowed, his tongue had froze

and his eyes acquired plating.

Before their pinhole sockets closed,

he saw a figure in the blue,

molding clouds to match its likeness.

Blindness came in sheets of silver.

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The Diminished Rat King

Whatever good you've cradled,

I can't be bothered to find.

You've been blind to mine at times.


Such ends we have enabled

speak dire of your confines:

internal irons that bind.


As the rat I am labeled;

I am nothing, and resign:

a scourge that burns in daylight.


From gutters I am fabled
to return one day to find

what ruin is left behind,


in the wake of your "insights".

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Ink Over Eye (Ugly Beholder)

Maybe it's best;
choking on teeth.
Woke yesterday
to pearls in the sink.
No cusp to chew,
or wells made for ink;
just bleeding gums -
grin to distinct
a man from his mettle,
collected for weeks
to melt into color
no brighter than bleak.
My sight had been framed,
and blurs never peak,
but the wash was a comfort
that felt right to seek.
I dipped into bowls;
fingers felt weak,
but brought to my eyes:
the shade let me breathe.
The pretty suppressed,
the ugly perceived,
and this in between
held nothing for me.

Chorus (1/2):
These painted locks;
switches made white,
shut out the light:
ink over eye.
Ugly beheld,
ugly defied;
ink over eye.

Maybe it's not;
I couldn't relate.
I know my own void -
what it might take;
the heat of my breath -
how it might taste,
and who it offends
when I let it escape.
My spark in the blue,
beaten by shade;
fading, replaced
by dull masquerade.
I look through the paint,
its gloss with its straits
and see it a waste,
just dotting my face.
Blotting in hew
and set like a stain;
newborn and blind,
frowning the same.
Drowning in flames,
smoke-hardened glaze,
enveloped for days
in dark that I've made.

These painted locks;
switches made white,
shut out the light:
ink over eye.
Ugly beheld,
ugly defied;
ink over eye.

These severed ties;
robbed of my sight.
Wronging of right:
ink over eye.
Self overwhelmed,
self to describe;
seek to deny
ink over eye.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Figured this would be longer, but I can't really think of anywhere else to take it.

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The Real Me Was Hungry

He'd dreamt of flaying off his bubbling surface-self,
so that the hardened truth beneath it would show bright.
But given time and enough insight - despite his thick hide,
he saw to his center, through all of the layered meat, and
was disappointed to find the same sort of ugliness
rearing to meet him, gaze against gaze:
a consciousness peering into a vaccum.

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Want Some?

the dream in my head is dark and scary.
i'm afraid to sleep.
the fear pauses my heart beats.
if your dreams are messages from your sub-conscious,
then i need help fast!

my exhaustion is tearing me down quickly.
even opening my eyes is making me weary.
i don't want to dive into my thoughts,
in case i drown in their darkness.

blood, red lights flicker and dim, exposed brick walls,
like a set of a B horror film.
i'm confused, dazed, and lost.
i feel disconnected from myself,
like i'm on autopilot.
i watch myself stabbing something over and over again.
the expression on my face is one of glee.
i watch me enjoy the blood splattering onto every surface.
what the hell bleeds this much?

i awake panicked and dripping in sweat.
how could i enjoy such a murderous rage?
i do giggle when i hold a large knife,
but i thought that was because i saw my reflection in the blade.
i am concerned there's another reason,
some deep seated madness waiting to escape.
another night spent pacing instead of resting.

is it a nightmare taunting me?
do i dare force myself to see what i am stabbing?
i feel fragile, like i'm on the edge of some great discovery or doom.
can there be truth here that will heal me?
i decide to medicate.
i take the pills praying for a dreamless deep sleep.

i'm back again!
same place, now i smell something rotting.
i feel the heat of something burning.
i'm not stabbing anymore.
i'm eating, an arm, ew!
i look up at me and extend myself an offer,
"want some?"
i feel myself recoil and shake my head no,
i continue to tell myself,
"it's fatty, but that's why it taste so good well done."
i look over a the corner, and there i am,
stabbed dead, minus an arm,
what the fuck have i done?

i wake up shaking and screaming.
i'm horrified.
i killed myself and i'm eating myself?
what does that mean???
i'm afraid to guess.
am i going to destroy myself?
another night spent pacing instead of racing.
i fear the night now!