It's just one ****** up little circle
Full of hate and degradations,
Malicious meanings
and confused connotations
That keeps us chasing after
Futile fires.

It hurts more and more
And more and
more, but
feels
as if time is speeding by
without your doing.
Your complacency
is at fault.

You feel yourself burning.
You are the ashes
Of a dying flame,
Not the Phoenix.

there's nothing like being young
and starving,
living in a roominghouse and
pretending to be a
writer
while other men are occupied
with their professions and
their possessions.
there's nothing like being
young and
starving,
listening to Brahms,
your belly ******-in,
nary an ounce of
fat,
stretched out on the bed
in the dark,
smoking a rolled
cigarette
and working on the
last bottle of
wine,
the sheets of your
writing strewn across the
floor.
you have walked on and across
them,
your masterpieces, and
either
they'll be read in
hell,
or perhaps
gnawed at by the
curious
mice.
Brahms is the only
friend you have,
the only friend you
want,
him and the wine
bottle,
as you realize that
you will never
be a citizen of the
world,
and if you
live to be very
old
you still will never
be a citizen of the
world.
the wine and
Brahms mix well as
you watch the
lights
move across the
ceiling,
courtesy of
passing
automobiles.
soon you'll sleep
and
tomorrow there
certainly
will be
more
masterpieces.

My mind doesn't make sense.
It changes
Doubles
Destroys
Designs.
It cascades in on itself
Creating rubble,
Only to rebuild something
Twisted,
Unsettling,
Squirming,
Swelling,
Bursting.

My mind is a place that
I tend to fear.
It's a trap,
A net
Tangling me in
It's sick web
Of spun tales.

To it,
I'm a slave.
No escape
Nothing left
But shadows
And lost artifacts
Best left in the dark.

I want to destroy.
I want to burn,
to break,
to bleed;
I want to feel the sting
of shattered glass
tearing through the tough skin
of my heels.
To see red.
To ache.
I want to breathe smoke.