Earth, water... fire.

I creative binge-fuck; it's gone
it's vacant and I haven't a 
tear to pretend duty to.

I haven't a glass to shoot my
pounding heart through, 
my bleeding cunt through

I haven't a sink to catch
my filth or my filthy mouth in
a sink to vomit up in
incorrectly
to block up the pipes
like you have my patience.

I haven't a chair
to have left out for
bacteria to feast on for
parasites to lay eggs in so
that they might incubate and 
reemerge having adapted to
the taste for flesh and 
strap me
down 
to it.

I haven't.

I haven't.

I'm not the bad guy this time.

The truth about being honest
is that the world doesn't fucking
matter if you're not honestly being.

Yea, she's a smart girl.

She knows all the answers
and they're insightful.

But there's something very, very wrong.

It loops.

It is looping.
Oh and disease festering out from the corners 
and multiplying in their slime and devouring, first, 
the floor but reaching out further and it makes you sick 
how you’ve living among them and it makes you
sick how you’re not bigger then them.

And illuminating small bursts of light fill up
the spaces in between-; from the tall grasses of
microbed-shit and its psychedelic spawn reaching
out to the yellowing ceiling, to the germ alive in the
air and breathing itself out, spreading its stain further 
and thickening it; licking it; nurturing it with something 
soft and glandular, making it and everything connected 
to it by molecule more dense, more toxic and 
insatiable of it’s own existence; cultivating 
all sweetness and swallowing up
whatever’s left in a choke 
coughing up the full
spectrum
of
disease.

I see right through you though I stand behind
my emotions and don't you ever think I could
handle and torture myself otherwise.

I handle and torture myself this wise. 
 
I told you it was okay that you fucked up
because sometimes reaction is spontaneous
and the human is vulnerable and the wisdom
of mind is in paralysis and that's okay because
it's how consciousness itself reacts to repression
and we need to know we're able to break and be
broken, that we are dynamic and fluid in nature
and not dealthless like old trees trapped in time.

Be known to your expressions of affected. Be 
known to the times you lost control and really know 
what you're capable of inhibited and raw.


But
you
are
a
tyrant.
 
I wish a heavy wind would blow through this house
and take the bitterness away with it
screaming.

Wading through fire

How much sulfur can soak through my feet?

How many old souls have to die young?

I have arms for the lost souls. I feel as if
I will be alone forever, experiencing one child
and one man or woman at a time. 

I feel as if I have only come to observe. 
That I have set myself up as a willing-unattainable. 

So that I might reach into your intimate mind, cum
and let go for the next line of sight in the spectrum. 

I have too much heart to give this void.

I have too much gut for protection.

I don't discard through lack of interest.
I discard because some giant, epic excuse 
manifests itself exactly when I need it to.

Fuck.