On the Precipice of a Teetering Cedar

Your bad days are a blink in my life.

These shoes that I wear are filled with blood and anger. 

My clothes are the agony of memory.

The burden of putting them on,

An anchor pressing my lungs—expunging every breath I take.

Always watching, always watching,

Though you cannot stand behind me,

You cannot see what face you leech.

Like I didn't want to see a family dying. But dead they are as me.

I am marching to a chair with an extension chord.

Making my own power run from the ceiling

To get you feeling what should have been done, 

What you shouldn't run from.

My enemy is in the photos you'll see.

The hurt locker, the soul shocker: the mind tainted.

I must face flesh. I wish not to wander, exist, or meander. 

Life is such dander.

No daffodil could thrill my senses with funeral scents.

I sense I am a skeptic, a heretic, to faces known and subjective.

Weak-willed is the crow that taunts, hawking on my lawn

With a dead squirrel squirming in its talons.

Shrieking to speak... Watching my mouth, never me.

For I am not fake nor wanting, this life I am marching.

I'd rather crawl and fall and meet the branch of the slave tree

I know what misery hangs from the elm, see

No color or hue stands in perfume to capture the room 

from the fragrance of your bullshit.. your weak wit.

Your phallus mind that left behind your common sense

That made me eccentric to the sheep shit

We're all in knee-deep shit.

And this rite I've writ to spit, of my common tongue.

Is the will to fly from words where silence had sung. 

I am left to stain.. the front porch with my brain. 

Cut grass–like cut wrists.

I see weapons where you see what to cook with.

The kitchen is a torture room,

Sharp points leave a mark

But a death at the dinner table sends a message.

To my family, I confess this:

Once those doors closed, my ghost roamed

& I became one of the faceless.

A memory you'll never face, and

My ill repose from golden globes

Will show you the time

I was never home or acquainted.

Forever is forever separated from banter.

Once that door closes I am gone forever.

To say it gets better you are wrong.

There is nothing. Nothing. Nothing that you can do

To make up for thirty years screwed.

No change or chance will avail perchance

Or perhaps I shall speak plainly to wandering eyes that are watching?

Privates and sergeants of the charging.

Each day that grows, I lose what I compose

To keep my hands wrapping around chambered throat.

Its happiness soothed from the death I denote while I sway.

I wait for the day, my last lines stop on a page.

And all of this feeling hanging from the ceiling 

Pushed down on my crown

Realistically millions are here, and I wish not to be gone..

The flesh of my kind now turned to sheep shit. 

Ass-clowns too busy to make the rounds

Yet the titles they keep are for the flock that they feed on

As your friendships are usages in small snake pits.

If you kiss the ass of a Jack,

It does not make your best man a high prince

Or your sister, a princess of the priceless.

You're not worth more than a wage amount

Or a tag they stamp on the merchants. 

Priceless: means your worth-less.

No amount could surmount

The taxation of your cost in your own defense. 

Your flesh neither holds régence.

No home could bestow an illusion renowned by a closed fist.

Your mind is a knuckle unscarred because you've never punched wit.

Your scars have no evidence

You've never battled with intellectual intelligence

So let me stop where it is safe before I break what's worthless.

I am, remorseless.

Keep my words at bay

While my gallows goal sways

For you are a weekend, I am a Wednesday. 

Fucking your thoughts with a bout of  The Monday's. . .