he came home one night
soaked with blood,
tears dripping from his eyes,
catching up his breath.

he looked right into my eyes
and I saw the fear
that has long kept him
in imprisonment

he took the blame
and the penalty
is death.

I keep thinking
                                 I'm hungry
                                 I'm closer to the curb
                                                      I'm late.

I keep thinking
                                 It should've cost less
                                 This was a waste of gas
                                         I'm gonna head out.

I keep hearing
                          my alarm;
                          Your early morning voice
                        The frosted wind quake above.

I keep thinking
                          I'd have more to say
                          I'd have more change
                        The meters were off by now.

I keep dreaming
                            I'm wandering
                            You appear occasionally
                           I have the antidote to misery.

I keep trying
                      To be
                             poetic
                                Enthusiastic
             ­                             Inspired.

Vonnegut has cursed me
I'm caught in a Timequake
Repeating continuously
My last worst mistake.
This is a tendency
I can't seem to shake and
My dependency
Comes and goes in waves
But for now I'd say

I don't need you.

I keep trying
                 to be logical.
I keep thinking
                 I'm doing alright.
I keep dreaming
                It's true
But I keep hearing
                The opposite from you.



C.e.M. April 24, 2014 first draft

Every time the butterflies come,
they crawl up my throat and start to choke me
but it's a good kind of choking,
like scratching an inch even though it makes the rash burn
or liking the pain of dotted blood lines on my skin
after a long day of holding in monsoons and earthquakes
beneath calm serenity.

Or like telling myself I can never get better
even if a part of me knows, knows I can.
It’s like deciding never to speak again,
or stop eating just because you can.

And why is it that pain tastes so much like love
when I willingly dress myself in it,
yet someone lays a finger on me
and I feel the same way
when my friends are mistreated
and animals are abused,
I feel a surge of fierce hatred
throughout my whole body
and don’t you ******* touch me
ever again.

I believe the world can be better than this.
And what does that say about me?
Does it make me a hypocrite in a sort of vague way?
Because I keep wondering
if I do things without thinking
that another me would hate me for.

Sneaking in silently,
whispering
secrets and conspiracies.

This is a puzzle,
scattered by
your thoughtless actions.

Voice still as stone,
I am held
prisoner of my mind.

The hands around my throat,
are not your's
but my very own.

I'm scattered -
The shards of glass are spread all over.
It's battered -
With nerves throughout my head.
The tapping never ends,
I lie here, still unhealed.
Time holds no concern
For what I discern.

Here it waits not for me,
Emotions have fled,
Composure's but dead,
So I lose more sleep.

It's warm.
What is this blissfulness?
"It's me.. You're not alone"
Embedded in the eardrum.
Tears disappeared
By just one glance at that curve on the face
That weird, yet such an euphoric curve
It's called a smile
Strange-
For it made the pain scattered
What is this comfort?  

Soon a smile was made apart of the appearance
Apart of the life
This curve was then around all the corners of the world

But where is the warmth?
The one that was felt in the beginning
It was always felt in thy heart
It was always seen when looked right..
But is no more seen or felt.
Blinked away,
It vanished
And where was thy?
Back in the cold.
The smile, euphoric?
What's that?

-fir.m

The pieces have been picked up
They've been put back in their places
But I still feel so scattered

My thoughts are
scattered ashes to the wind--
non-collectable burnt and charred,
wood that I would've carved into the likeness
of hearts, love letters
that I failed to make my point in,
and
newspapers that should be a cohesive story
but ended up a collision of black and white print
and jumbled media confusion.

beautiful beast,
i can't let you free;
I have to keep you
leashed to my brain.
it's not a good idea
  for you to be running  loose.
you would be perceived
    as dangerous.
"hide your children. hide!"

don't struggle
against the choke collar.
        you won't starve.
  you won't starve.
                    you won't starve.

everything i want to say gets l ost in the fray.
don't struggle
against the choke c ollar.
      because it's choking me.
stay clos e by, keep me company.
            there Is plenty of food out there.
                                              there is plenty of fo od.
        there is plenty of fooD somewhere.

i  t hi nk
  you're too  scary to catch your    quarry.
i have to ke ep you  here.                              leashed.
all  you want is out of reach  anyway, mutt.
                    in the trees, in    the clou ds
                                                      on the  map,  in my hea d
                                in bits of  pap er, in bites  of          met alloids.

don't  struggle                                        ­                    you keep me alive.
against th e              choke        co llar.
y ou   won't st arve.
                        just feed    on                    me.
  j      ust                   ­                                             feed on m
                                    e ju              st
fE          edo                        nme.   ­                   b                    ea
                      ­    uti f        u                l      b            ea                 ­       
    be                                                   ­                                               st.
              ­                  a
                                             ­     u
                                      ti

                ­    ful
be
                          a
                          ­                    s[hi]t.