#58 – the hook dug into our palms

you set the stage
and you have played us all for fools
you made sure
that we were thoroughly enthralled
in your tragedy

so that it really tugs and rips
when you pull that hook straight through our cheeks
in case you didn’t know: it hurts
and it’s not as unnoticeable as you’d like to hide
you ensured your failed subtlety in a
manner of three steps on your checklist

one – write in the lines people would crack
open for a grasp of smoky tendrils of hope.
everything between the lines to maybe
reveal something between the sheets.
(but god hope it’s much more than that)

two – align the stars slightly off an axis for
them to just barely barely get a hint of
Something Else and barely barely poking at
it with a graze of a fingertip
to knock comets off balance and create
collision courses to crack the fabric of
ignorant reality

and three – and this is quite the worst killer –
sever all strings attached to such
implications and brutally crush
anyone who believes otherwise into
smithereens of false hope

lights. camera. curtain call.


you have caught us in that millisecond
that mocks a tragedy
over and over
in a dangerous and hopeful cycle


#55 – there is nothing worse than a blank page

i’ve run out of things to say
everything looks menacing when
every word silences its noise

when every word unscrambles itself
in the skewed lines of my brain
all i’m left with are the
shattered lines that i laid my
heart on for no one to see

the noise in my head may
have been a nuisance
but the silence roars louder
than the aftermath of bombs
my mind has been obliterated
“i’m busy” is an excuse
because there is always time
to think

for fuck’s sake,
i’ve only got time to think
because my mind is
not a clean slate,
none of me is

there are words sewn into
the invisible atoms on the
callouses of my hand and
the cramps and ink stains
from ages ago but
i can’t think anymore
when now everything is a cycle
and i must censor everything
because i once opened my mouth
and a black flood came out
and everyone hated
my ink stained teeth

#54 – this was meant to be funny

i have this feeling
that i should write something happier
less melancholy, less tragedy
tinging every word
how? humor is dry these days
everyone’s jokes are self-deprecation
and everyone laughs because they feel
the same way
it’s all…hollow and
morbid how we all laugh the pain away
except it never really goes
it just stays and
none of us have medication
to numb the pain and
fill our heads with chemicals
that won’t make us crave an end
make us laugh at something
other than dumb jokes interchangeable
with unaddressed death
maybe one day
we’ll be able to laugh at something
other than
the scars under our eyelids

#53 – parasitism, contrary to belief, does apply to people

those people, like leeches
just with a bit more charisma, ha!
charisma? no — that’s naivety
mixed with misplaced confidence
that they walk with walls of effrontery
and rather than knocking down
mountains with each step,
they inconvenience anthills

those people, like leeches
that feed off of pain
thinking they’re healing
when they’re pouring salt
in fresh wounds
there’s a reason people cover their scars
so those people, like leeches,
don’t poke and prod with
sharp, jagged nails
or rough, nosy fingers
it’s none. of. your. business.

those people, like leeches
that lazily feed off others’ work
claims it as their own
they don’t do anything else
but convince you that they
did anything else besides
get lazily drunk on the
fruits of other people’s loins

those people, like leeches
will gladly drain your blood
to feed the already satiated earth
if it meant
the earth gives them false praise
you can’t give in to leeches
unless you want to be devoured

#52 – without benefits

love that speaks more
through the tongue than
the mouth

because what is there to say?

if you ask them to stay,
they’ll ask “for how long?”
and you’ll want to say forever
but they’ll just scoff
because they won’t, can’t, don’t…

if you ask them to stay,
they’ll ask “but why?”
and you can’t say
“because you’re important to me”
because they can’t see their
significance past
a convenient body for cold beds
besides – they’d laugh

if you ask them to stay,
they’ll ask – threaten – “should we just end this, then?”
and you can’t risk that
especially not that
who cares if you’re just another
warm body? a notch in their bedpost?
you’ll take anything you can
get because
dammit, they’re worth it
you tell yourself they shouldn’t be
but you can’t help it

if you ask them to stay —
and this is what you fear the most —
what if
they say

#51 – why do people write love stories?

love stories give me stress
everyone has so much to say
about heartaches and heartbreaks
it’s almost all the same
the same pattern of
we loved, you left, i wept

the same cycle of
anecdotes and metaphors of
how someone looked
how someone loved
how someone made someone else feel


if love can be rewritten and pieced
together in almost the same ways
why do we write at all?
are we all so intoxicated by love stories?

and why?
why do love stories write in definitive pronouns?
reading, thinking the wrong pronouns
sends bile to the back of my throat
(i’m not like them, i will never be like them)

their love stories are rational,
with a clean end, middle, beginning
and feelings

while my stories create loops and creases
in places they don’t belong and
emotions are too hard to define
and love has no labels
and it doesn’t feel like
modern day fairy tales
and there are no pretty quotes
or poetry to begin to describe
and it’s not all good and
the process does not feel the same
it’s all cliches and no
your love is no different than anyone
else’s and there’s a line between
love and delusion and
we’re all teetering on that line

#50 – writing this dulled me

hell is complacency
uniformity like an eternity of
computer light occupying your face
cubicles like microcosms
of prison cells, mental wards
to lock yourself away in from
your creativity, imaginations, ideas…

the color gray becoming the
only color you see
your life defined by the same screens
of the same papers and lines and
lines and only ever lines
working because you exist to serve

the only conversations you make
are small, finite, minuscule
as shallow – no, more shallow –
than a teardrop of water
your thoughts have been repeated
a trillion times over in the
same patterns with no. change.

the same mindless
murmuring drones heard
with voices low with how
drained the volume of their lives became

every food – flavorless.
every noise – pure static.
every scent – subdued.
every sight – blurred, muddled.

you chose this.
you chose puppetry.