Phantom Stitches.

Somebody taps a chisel,

into a phantom nerve end,

my body racks and wriggles,

as I wake up screaming again,

somebody drives a freight-train,

through thinly-laid dreamscape,

somebody else is using my name,

and handing out my handshake,

someone is chasing me constantly,

anytime I look his face is somewhere,

like a silent horror that’s stalking me,

with a presence that’s everywhere,

somebody rips up the stitches,

the sound of Velcro against my screams,

the scenery changes and switches,

but the stitches are ripped out unfailingly,

somebody please tell me,

this isn’t the best of recovery,

that spending more time in therapy,

will allow the stitches to dissolve naturally.

 

Nocturnal Decline.

How the lids of each eye,

had been pressed and dried,

to each cheek overnight,

as I slumbered and cried;

how the corners of the smile,

that no one’s seen for a while,

turned down by the light,

with classic taciturn style;

how the sweeping of time,

collected dust into a pile,

to sift through and find,

grains of truth that were mine;

how the passage defines,

the subtle crossing of lines,

the journal of my nocturnal decline,

slumber is no friend of mine.

 

 

Around.

You don’t know what my tears taste like,

because your lips do not catch their’ fall,

and the tendency to judge my actions…

well, you’re nobody to judge me at all.

You don’t have a clue what I’ve come through,

I don’t care where you think that you’ve been,

as soon as you’ve perfected your own shit…

maybe, come back and take a crack at me again.

I don’t need a single person’s approval,

and most certainly wasn’t looking for yours,

I know who I am, against your presumptions…

I stand for the steps you’ve never taken before.

People like you only shrink when compared to,

somebody with half of a beating heart,

I’m not sure why it shines so sure from your eyes…

a slice of humanity would break you apart.

Please keep your greed from my scenery,

if you own the slightest hint of a clue,

of how much I despise the habit of lies…

take heed, if you know what’s good for you.

Because, one day you will taste my teardrops,

you will feel the fathoms of my own grief,

despite all of your efforts at destruction and doom…

someday your reflection will look just like me.

Dirty Kerosene.

reduce heat;
overthink;
let simmer –
stir in memories…
add some seasoning,
cover entire mix;
boil overnight,
slow and steadily,
infuse the sauce,
with every teardrop,
slow-cooked misery;
a favorite, indeed,
to anyone in the room,
this unspoken recipe,
Sugar-Candied Doom,
sadly,
it all tastes,
the same to me,
a price to pay,
for the slow-brew,
insomnia infused,
home-made marinade,
douse any leftovers,
in dirty kerosene,
and burn it up,
with any residual,
happy memories,
the pot has boiled over,
over-stimulus,
to the sensory…
bury the book,
the one from,
which you took,
this torturous recipe.

Scared.

I guess it’s good that I can’t recall the nightmares I have after I awaken from them; they are bad enough to often already have me in tears upon waking for the first time for the day – and I don’t mean like a few little snuffles either – I mean like full-blown

“I’m upset as hell and can’t stop crying and don’t even know why”.

I’m a fucking trainwreck
I’m a fucking headcase
I wake up in the morning and I’m sobbing and scared and the worst part about it is that I can’t even put my finger on WHAT I’m so afraid of or WHO. I just FEEL SCARED.

Dirty Kerosene.

reduce heat;
overthink;
let simmer –
stir in memories…
add some seasoning,
cover entire mix;
boil overnight,
slow and steadily,
infuse the sauce,
with every teardrop,
slow-cooked misery;
a favorite, indeed,
to anyone in the room,
this unspoken recipe,
Sugar-Candied Doom,
sadly,
it all tastes,
the same to me,
a price to pay,
for the slow-brew,
insomnia infused,
home-made marinade,
douse any leftovers,
in dirty kerosene,
and burn it up,
with any residual,
happy memories,
the pot has boiled over,
over-stimulus,
to the sensory…
bury the book,
the one from,
which you took,
this torturous recipe.