My Recurring Themes

Being loved for me

Without expectation or fantasy

Seems difficult to believe

With my experience of me.

Not so much a wreck,

I survive and reflect

On which parts feel neglect

Like an Art without affect.

My solace is stained,

In my solitude contained

With a sadness ingrained

And expression estranged.

I mumble and shake,

Needs pulsing and awake,

Demanding that I break

Whatever is at stake.

I’ve worn out these flaws,

Dissected their causes,

Accepted my losses,

But still wrapped in their familiar claws.

Blissed

I’m saving for a life,

For the prospect of better moments

Outside of time wasted

On boredom, sleep, or pain.

Exposing every injury,

Exploring my faults and fears

To the very roots of consciousness

Proves essential to progress.

Dilemmas and desires cross

Like first-loves and jealous lust,

Eroding us internally

Until we bleed them out.

Our most blissed moments

Exist long enough to be missed,

As in, yearning for whole hearts

After they’ve been severed.

Perfection is ever sought,

Though most agree it’s impossible,

So we live for those moments

When we can’t feel any flaws.

The Bleeding Spot

Thoughts pass

Unfazingly through my consciousness,

Falling ineffectively

Outside my bleeding spot.

The centerpiece,

The open wound from my crown of thorns

Constantly prickling

My most tender aspects.

Soaking out

To infect every fragment of my mind.

Aggravating peace

And re-shaping my disposition.

Never healing,

The abrasion too painful to touch,

Pulsating madly

At the suggestion of sensation.

Reaching in,

Only to tickle it for a moment

Sends it gushing

And pouring down my tear-spout.

Let it out.

Empty this swollen mass of trauma

Little by little

Until it’s finally gone forever.