masochist

I hear talk of fathers leaving mistakes out to dry
sending nightmares to their sons
like so many perverted sandmen crushing dreams
and snorting them for fun,
but what of the daughters
and is self-defection considered a sin

I would swallow you whole even though I know
I don't posses the constitution to digest you
I'll have to purge this mess that you make me
but I always did enjoy the poison therein
and all the things that pull me down to small deaths

defeat like discomfort brings its own kind of pleasure
to a masochist whose addicted to emotion
found floundering in a state of cessation
face frozen because when I'm brittle creases turn into cracks
and the whole thing can fall off leaving words wandering
left wondering how much sorrow they made
how heavy they weighed
or if it was mostly bought and borrowed

a storage unit of self abuse or pity or pain
sells cheap on a cold day like today
when you can pull up your hood
and pretend that it's not because you prefer to hide

theres no blood as black as that which beats
from a lived in lie
even if it was the white kind
packaged in paper printed with
self-preservation.

Delirium

There are people who live like meat

such controversial lives, they rot on the inside

deceptively affecting only those who stand too close

and observe too much

maybe they got stuck in the wrong chapters

or never started their own story

but that’s an uncharacteristically optimistic theory.

Days like this I’m consumed by carcasses of old love

when all the right floats out of reach

and the wrong bombards

making my heart shake and my consciousness shiver

nervous

break

and everything you spill is a joke

what’s that about laughing to keep from

delirium

I’m so numb that I think this chunky color

sticking to my skinny knuckles is grated beets

but the runoffs too red

and everyone’s crawling out of their comfort

with less than subtle, I don’t know

sympathy

solicitude

to ask if I need help

I glance at my reflection and guess

I must look sorry like this, insides turned out

because everybody slips from the weight they’re forced to carry

and sometimes we suffer that kind of grotesque trauma

besides I’m so small

too small to make a bed this big, but somehow I did

just never knew it would feel like this

with all the dirt thrown on, so boxed in.

Death glides across the tragedy of life

the ocean we bathe in, the flavor of inspiration

I’m the magicians assistant being punctured by an amateurs sword

and this punctured organ makes me faint

filling up with blood like a water balloon

doomed to be flung by some overzealous adolescent,

and yes I know those don’t throw anymore

unless their hands are filled with weapons

but aren't we all entitled to some wishful thinking.

I become delirious contemplating the irony of speech

that which is kept silent and all those things rashly spoken

often in the wrong order, usually traded for the wrong words

always for the worst reasons.