Don’t Talk

Let’s talk of love,
Of sunsets,
And peace,

Let’s talk of roses
And romance,
And full glasses of champagne.

Talk of joy
And having a baby,
And windchimes,
And feasts,

But let’s not talk of hate,
Or war
Or crimson rivers;
Wounds crackling with pus,
Popping scabs,
The sizzling gashes on my face.

Don’t speak of lost soldiers with forgotten limbs.
Don’t think,
Of discrimination,
And sorrow,
And divided skin.

Don’t waste a single breath
On misfits,
Or widows.

Ignore conversing about infants
Left in the gutter,
Or orphans without arms,
Or bombings,
Or fire in the streets.

Don’t mention parents
Who kill their children.
I don’t want to know
About incest,
And rape.

Don’t look at the spires
Constructed of bodies,
With insects crawling out holes,
And eating out frowns.

Absolutely never speak,
Of anger and sadness
And anything in between.

Why bother with illness
Of mind,

Forget about the times
When liberty bled.
That’s not on my conscience.

Why mention families,

Why speak of agony,
And brokenness,
And death?
Don’t speak,
Of suffering
At all.

But let’s talk,
About anything,
And everything,
Anything at all.
As long
As it’s not,


I’ve Tasted Galaxies…

I’ve tasted galaxies of life

And death

And sorrows past feeling.

Of joy without limit

And the doubting of self.


I’ve drunk rivers of peace

And oceans of boundless wonder.


I’ve breathed in clouds of self-pity

And enjoyed the smells of meadows

Filled with unending mystery.


But I’m not you.

I will never be like you.


And even when our souls do


I feel more distant when we part

Than before we met.


But you feel fulfilled,

Enlightened even.

Like I’m just another self-help book

On your shelf of past experiences.

Like I’m a pass or fail college course

You can take in eight weeks

And forget about in three.


So I cover my scars with a cloak of shame

As they spread down my twisted back.

And I hide my broken tears

In the lyrics I sing to the world.


You sing along,

Calling my suffering, “art” and saying,


“It’s beautiful.”


“I wish I could write like that.”


“It makes me want to cry.”


If you knew what it cost,

To create the art you marvel at,

You’d draw your eyes anywhere else.


The beauty you see

Is the mask worn by the fallen angel of who I am.


If you could write like I write,

You’d cry tears

You could never take back.


I wish you never have to cry the tears

I’ve cried.


And I’d cry them again

If it meant saving you

From it all.


But even then, inside of me,

I feel the rusted inner-turmoil of a Saint who killed his god.

Who can’t get over the death,

Cause it was a senseless pleasure murder

Disguised as a mercy killing.


All else died on that day,

The day his god died.

And I can taste,

The ever-running-tears from the Saint’s face,

As I hold it next to mine,

And I wish he could forget

When his god died.


But then,

I wish you suffered

Like I did-



I wish you suffered worse than I did.


Because I’m tired.

I’m so tired.

Cause every bed is a bed of thin needles.

So I stand and bite down on my hand

So the blood distracts me from my failing heart.

But when I grow tired of even that,

And the blood dries,

I’m left with a swollen, teeth-marked palm

And a heart struggling to even gasp.

Then I remember

your worth,

And take back the tar-smeared words I never said to you,

And put out the livid torch with my fingers.

Because I love-

I love you more,

Than I could ever love myself.