I can't hear my cries,
as I can't range out,
anymore.
I stay in bed and die,
shivering and about,
what's this life for?
A wounded pigeon
will never ever fly,
Sometimes a mind,
cannot press unwind.
Hand me the remote,
it won't bring new emotes.
I can't bring myself to past,
and my conscious always last,
what is child abuse but a frame,
where so many wear the shame?
I bring myself to bottles
and a handful of gotten,
My pile of smarties,
Get me up and motivated.

He didn’t mean to—
not really.

Just a flash of white,
a crescent moon of teeth
in soft rebellion.
My hand, the eclipse.
His eyes, twin puddles
spilled from stormclouds
he didn’t know he carried.

He backs away,
ears flattened like fallen wings,
tail tucked tight—
a question mark
curled in the dirt.

The bite stings less
than his trembling silence.

He watches me
as if I hold thunder
beneath my skin.

I crouch low.
He crawls lower,
guilt breathing louder
than either of us.

A shiver trails down
his brindle spine
like winter chasing spring.

And I—
I forgive him
before he even reaches
my outstretched palm.

It’s a longing that runs deep
It’s a fire that lights it
It’s a blaze that you seek
It’s a desire that falls neat
It’s a blush that you heat
It’s a lust that you whip
It’s a whisper that feels cheap
It’s a lump that you dip
It’s a tear that you lick
It’s a feeling that leaves quick

It’s a Lover who felt sick

No matter
                      Upon which surface I tread
Moss sand soil
Sediments of years
                                  Long past
Become exposed
                                  Each step
Layers of guilt
A backpack
That cannot be lightened
                                     Or past to another
When load or gradient surpass my will

No matter
                     Upon which surface I tread
Footprints left
                          Sink deeper
Than scales would suggest
One day soon
                        With love and acceptance
A path upon tissue paper
                                   Will leave no trace

till the ****** of love
she sang

till the drapes
in tatters, wail
they shiver
threads,
to ribbons
as tears
frail in spring breeze
stiff
bony breath of winter
chills the soul
readies me for the wound

she could dance
belly and all
entrance my naked heart, my dizzy doldrums
how all I'd wanted
was her
in the midst
of my forest

mistake my love
for the stars
she did
for the myriad
she tossed her well
into my coin
and I drank her in
leagues deep
with one penny
for her mind
read her life
saw her perfection stem
in my interest
coffers full
no rust, pon my copper touch,
dividends of time, we had
and yet
by the hour, struck every eve,
the penny wast all I had
for, spat back, my penny went

a man can love a woman
but should his penny be worth her life
her love, her heavens, her crown,
men,
with wallets heavy as banks
will buy her drunk
ego, pride, unmerciful
to the brim
with lust
save one's penny, she'd be rich

though poor all her days, without you...

I am the soul who piled darkness in the divine’s realm.
It grows well within the ribs of mine,

Alongside anger and disgust,

Reaping in every inch of glass reflection.

And I sow sorrow freshly in the fields of life,

Acknowledging my own sin

Within the punishment that blow-dries His blessings.
I wake with fresh morning hatred.

Rage, shame, and anguish are friends of mine—

They sleep between my eyes,

Sneaking in during moments of daydreaming.
But His blessings are infinite.

Through every inhale I take,

God’s grace shows me mercy and miracles.

And I catch myself holding the point—

Of becoming nothing through death.


Stopping is not the answer;

And so I keep moving,

For the sake of life
And the gentlest death.

Why is being ‘shameless’
something bad
but ‘fearless’
a desired quality
when shame
closes doors
and fear
saves lives?

These are the shorts that I wear
When I wear shorts
I don’t really have other options
I swear, I wear either the one pair or
I wear the nearly identical shorts with the paint

I’ve got paint on about half my shorts
But I only have two pairs of shorts so
They’ve all been half-paint-splattered

If I can keep one pristine moving forward
For, like, well, forever, or at least until
I buy replacement shorts
I could bury the shame
With a bundle of unmutilated athletic shorts
I’ll never wear to a gym

They’re more actively loungewear but
Amazon gave them the name
I’m an athlete, you betcha
Just look at my shorts