Splattered
Like spaghetti sauce
On a baby's white highchair-

That's your inner life.
Red, dried, this is going to stain.

You swallowed bullets, and then they shot inside you.

Like an old broken computer,
You're bigger, and you look fine,
but you whir (and hum) at the slightest touch;
overheating.

Like not wearing underwear under your clothes,
everything is scratchy and a little raw and you feel more vulnerable.

You feel everyone must know. How could they?

Only if they notice.
Or
If they lure you into taking off those "I've got it together" clothes.
Which nobody can do anymore.
Because ******, you're going to integrate that ****.

Wear that rawness like the Emperor in his new clothes.
Be your own mischievous taylor.
Laugh like a baby at the spaghetti stain.
Spit the bullet shards out
at kids so they don't do the same thing you did.

Can you hear them?
Yes, they are crying.
Can you see them?
Yes, the farmers, yes.
No, I mean,
The blood, the blood.
Each grain is pregnant.
With blood, with blood.
No! let’s fill the rice fields.
Let’s plant bullets.
No, with blood, with blood.
When will they learn?
Why? Is there something to learn?
Why is there something to learn?
Why, is there something--
They can no longer learn.
They can no longer hear.
They can no longer see.
Why? I demand an answer!
Why do I demand an answer?
Why?
You killed them.

silhouettes running down brick walls like

flashfloods clinging to ***** mascara
where starstruck children run in mud
call me the eve of original sin
for the things I have seen and the places I've been

for ridges of ink etched in landscapes of skin
for heartbeats in hoodies saying lest we forget

in the valley of the shadow of death
they rest with hands crossed over their chests

I realise there are more than two
Types of bullets, and pain you get put through
Mental, physical, emotional and social
Many different types, and many different pains
From a couple of minutes to days and days

Do you believe
You can transfer disease?
Without actually catching
Anything?

More mental than physical
Either way this is difficult
This pain, or lack of it,
Driving me hysterical

For example, a normal bullet
Hiding in a clip, store it,
Load it, chamber it,
Point and shoot it

You've got hollow points
Like the hollow pain in my joints
At the base of my neck,
In my head, no drug anoints.

Then you've got Full Metal Jacket
The shots causing such a racket
Disorientating pain, all over again,
Sticking to you like a magnet.

No matter what I do, it won't go
Hollow points in my chest, as time goes slow
I just wish my hidden gunman
Would take his bullets to a cliff and over they go.

If your thoughts become your enemies, your demons will follow you.

If your words become bullets, your mind is your weapon.

Your in a war. But who's your foe?

A whistle flew past my ear,
and I stay in hiding
They're almost here
I will not surrender
So I square my shoulders and fire
I fall for what seems like eternity
and count the stings
as I slowly close my eyes
ready to succumb to death
I see a figure standing in front of me,
and then I wake up.

i miss the way
you used your words
to be such a passionate
gift

they clung to me like raindrops
on a rainy day
i bathed myself
in them
in fear
that a day like this may
never come again

and it truly didnt
the raindrops didnt quite
fall in the same soft manner
as  they once did
(b.d.s.)