Death is not your aim, Life is not for fame
Between lines of nature’s rhyme,
Luck is not the same.

Mouth is not to mime, lust and luster’s chime
Beggar’s garb on dame,
Why the heart not flame?

Tin of humanity shame, opened loud to blame
Without having the brame,
Uttered vanity claim.

Time is not to tame, minds of ruthless lame
Do your little dime,
Not for name or acclaim.

I didn’t get the memo
to evolve -
stop sticking my hands
into the fresh-fire,
as if some part
of my visceral mania
wants to ****** my knuckles
with the ashes of Prometheus.

Every day that I don’t crash my car
is a white-hot remnant
of the suffocation of boredom,
like my life is on pause
until I’m nose down in a gutter
or in a line that I keep trying to cross.

There’s evaporated acid rain
condensing within every hangover,
each time the sun
rises; I rip down my fingernails
climbing to reach it,
gasping down
at the pulsating impulse
to make something terrifying
out of paper maché
and broken bottles
and bruised ego.

In every grave, there’s an I,
subtly watching
for the apotheosis;
a moment of sickly-yellow violence
igniting once more
any excuse for a fight
for fame,
for a feeling.

The onlooker had something to say,
about the yellowness of the tulip
and the unbroken dew drop
on the lotus floating by

I flowered beside,
not more distinguished than any,
my sprouts, born with a name
not known, to admirers, many

My tiny florets blossomed,
each day the sun’s rays, graced earth
and showers moistened its soil.
I relished in my creations;

Until the day, I withered away,
when my roots left the soil
not charred in negligence
but in content, of living.