Void: a collection of poems written while rotting
beginning
I am the end of time and the beginning of creation
Nothingness is potential
And i am potential
I am always potential
messy realities of life
the messy realities of life are:
the ringing in ears
the ringing in ears
the constant ringing in ears
bright lights and hospitals and bright lights and no hospitals
no blood on the floor
no gun in the hand
but always the ringing in ears
homesick
i am home sick
sick of my home
sick of a place filled of violence and rot and mold and scared this is all i can become
i will sink into the bed and never leave
i will never leave
when the couch is cleaned and my bones are found underneath the couch cushions
of a putrid, half-sunken house
they will look apon them sadly
knowing i did this to myself
cold
The cold is not hollow,
But a vessel for blank faced rot staring into nothing
A way to capture and preserve all the anger and heat in your soul,
Keep it locked away,
Bitter and frozen and motionless,
Keep it fixated on its breath and clouds it creates as its chained by frost and hate and ice
Until it remembers what it exists for-
And the steam rises!
And the movement begins!
A twitch of the eye,
Recognition in a hatred filled glance
Watching the ice drip, drip...drip
Leaving the cold melted away
For heated hollow to fill its place
heat
Heat makes me mean
Its a literal fire inside me
Roasting my words, making me bitter and cruel
Sharp
Biting
I wish I could melt like the popsicles i pop like pills
Five a day to curb the sickness creeping into my mind
Whispering slaughter, slaughter
Its too much
Its too much, oozing out of me like trash lava
Burning anyone close enough to hear
I wish i could cool down
the can
i am numb and hungry
the can is waiting for me as i walk in the door
dull
bursting with nutrients needed to get me a few hours, nothing more
i am numb and the lid pops off easy, its innards thick and ready to be forgotten
ready to be eaten
it is cold and i am cold and we match and i am so hungry
the taste means nothing and the can is not patient
so i dig in
relief comes from the can. nothing more
a few hours relief from the hunger, coupled with the shame that the can is all i have
the can is all i can stand
i am so numb
I am still so hungry
museum
I cant wait to die
Not for the reasons you think!
Nonexistance fits me
I cant wait to become a museum
Like the ones i walk through
Cant wait to leave behind what makes up myself
I dont even know what makes up myself
Let others make those assumptions for me, for them
Keep all my art neat, in one place
My home perfect picture of a nineteen year old with more questions than answers
Is this true, am i true?
Does it matter when im dead?
No, and i cant wait
Let only my collections and others desires shape my personality
Because what others want of me is all there is left
to the bugs
it is comforting to know
that when i stop moving
the earth will continue on.
the ground crawls,
writhes underneath my hands
the pulse of life
and dirt
throbbing
just outside of my peripheral vision.
the ants are blood, bees the breath
squirming and buzzing and marching in neat orderly lines
giving mother earth her health via their own
i am merely a small organism
living within her
she will not notice when i am gone
my blood will be used for her bugs
my body a home
and i will be safe, held tight in the loving arms of the squirming, buzzing earth
a kind of bad rhyme
My skin is tough it hurts when i scratch it
And though i am sick noone else will catch it
For this is a rot that runs deep inside
My bones and veins and tries to hide
By telling me that fear is safe
Hiding inside my home are lies
Pestering me with different cries
Of past hurt that cannot escape
With one little cough i have sealed my fate
DEAD END
It feels as if my eyes are already dimming
And my time has run out
My mind is clouded with age, and any
Potential
Left has long been burnt away by the mistakes of the past
Ive been a coward, ive been cruel,
Is this all i am now?
One road, past the point of diversion
Left imbittered by its mistakes till being cut short
Lone sign its only companion
mothers
When i run out of time,
Print me off some more
Let me find it on a little ticket stub, with a number
Let me earn my worth
When all of my opportunities dry up and im no longer looked at
With interest
But the vague disgust of something past
their due date
Dye my roots blonde
To make me purer than i could ever be
Hide the stench of giving up
With embalming fluid,
50 dollar foundation
Dont mention this is my
13th 25th birthday
Dont mention the way i melt under the harsh glares of peers
Makeup caked and oozing down my withered lips
Just reminisce about lost potential
How i can shuffle along my youth and glory,
Wants and dreams, to the future
To the children
So they can dye their roots blonde
And crumple their ticket stubs in their pockets,
Just like i did.
skin and bones
Everything is falling apart
And i am beautiful
And i am empty
And i have to cling to the vestiges of what once kept me together before
But it crumples in my hands like an empty cicada shell,
No longer working
No longer useful
No longer anything
Who am i if all i exist for is pleasing other people?
Am i that transparent?
What am i going to become
If the future now makes me so angry i cant stand it?
Is vulnerability the worst fate given to me?
Am i transparent?
Am i transparent?
i think i am dead
i think i am dead
i *am* dead
rotting, living dead living corpse
skin sagging and falling off, no strings of life to keep me together
walking rot my blood sitting still in my heart
mold growing in a flesh colored container of sweat that no longer breathes
how can i breathe when i am being held in a vice grip by bruises with no
memory of where they came from
in
out
pain
brittle bones allow no room for movement
slowly, i decompose
slowly, my loved ones realize there is no life for me
no hope for me
slowly, they let go
let my corpse float along the river of bad mistakes that are, at least, my own
is it better that this body is mine in death?
or does it matter
when i was only ever following a path laid out by others from my very conception
others, ones who hated that they chose the shoes i walked in anyway
would rather i choose for them were i ever capable of doing so
but i have always been going to die
here, then, now, before, the future the past I AM ALWAYS DEAD
i am dead
i think i am dead