like any other addiction, it slowly kills you

your heroine flits through the blood in your chest

and bangs against your ribcage causing blood to fill in the lungs

and you cough, spit it out, and take it again

and again,

pretty soon it's all you know and all you think you need

despite the fact that you no longer recognize your face,

it's red and puffed up and makes a mask of shame

because you let it breathe for you

so your heart stops when it's not around.

so one day in a drunken stupor, you look over

and notice how much you are giving

while all the time there is a black hole sitting

on your couch devouring everything

and punishing you for what it decides you aren't giving it.

So it's enough and you rip out the IV

and it bleeds for a while, might I add,

not painlessly,

but you notice that you gasp for air while you're crying

and you can finally breathe again.

I lost control. And that's all she wrote. But then, no joke, I saw poetry in motion. Reality rhyming while I'm mindful of minding business big or small. I came to crawl out of my ego-crib, proceed to promptly sit up straight, witness to reality demonstrate its way with the Way. Okay? And here's what the jam-band would say. It's all atoms dancing, electrons prancing, gluons laughing - but then keep diving, your scuba gear binding, you will get to finding, that there's no separation, just pure space-ness, and upon the amazement and elation that mind-brush will be painting, you will feel the utter and absolute opposite of anxious.

I didn't see the thorns.

It's true, I didn't see them.

I thought it was the intricacies of love,

but it was nothing but a thorn in my side.

I didn't feel the thorns.

Its true, how could I feel them?

When its a story pointed towards romanticizing,

I grow numb to the sharp sting.

I didn't notice the red flag.

It's true, I didn't notice it.

Maybe because the red flag was crumpled up into a beautiful rose,

and nobody had ever given me a rose before.

If January had shattered me like glass

February was the shards that were left upon the floor

we were short, and sharp, and dangerous

leaving scars upon both of our hearts

broken broken broken

and there was no winner in our desperate grasp for freedom

shadowed by the force in which we crashed to the ground

You were red- a cherry, burning red

and I was blue- ice cold, leaching color

and together all we were was

broken broken broken

pieces of shatter glass upon the floor

I knew that falling out of love took months

but I suppose this time I was blindsided

clinging to past realities

I am content now but there lingers this pain

the pain that I don't feel the same

because you have changed.

my heart grows weak

unable to withstand all the pushes and the pulls

when you started to play the guitar on my heartstrings instead of your own.

You keep turning on me

and I no longer feel secured and loved by you

only your lingering judgment and your hesitancy.

That's not what growing old together should look like.

We do not grow weak

we grow stronger despite age

I am falling out of love because I can't hold on any longer when you give me nothing to hold on to.

Can you write of the ocean if scared you may drown?

Of flights through the sky when you're stuck on the ground?

Of folks and of places you've never been around?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write of the past if you're presently now?

Of future though time travel has no way how?

Of school days despite that you've taken your bow?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about villains if you're goody two shoes?

Of happiest endings when you have the blues?

Of triumphs and troubles you've never gone through?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about creatures that no one has known?

Of far-away countries from the warmth of your home?

Of fun times with friends when you've always been alone?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about space if you've never left earth?

Of measures of treasures with your penny's worth?

Of mothers when you have never given birth?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write of finding that one Mr. Right?

Of that special someone making you his wife?

Of magical days and romantical nights?

I don't know about you but I do.

And then, I dream... A girl can only dream...

And hope and pray with might,

That someday maybe my words will be true-

But, in the meantime, I write.

Dear Tootles,

I would like to take a moment to discuss your request for the introduction of mice into our shared dwelling for the express purpose of your demented entertainment.

I have thoughtfully considered your arguments for such an arrangement, and would like to address each individually.

1. Staring out a window has grown tiresome.

I am quite sorry to hear that our dwelling's windows no longer meet your standards. I would like to point out that, in areas which allow for maximum sun exposure, there have been painstaking efforts - such as installing hammocks and placing various objects of entertainment - to ensure your comfort. As such, I feel we may want to address your choice of words instead. I know that if I spent my days sunning myself and getting high on catnip, I'd likely feel tired as well. I would like to offer you an opportunity to reframe your thoughts about our windows and their value. Feeling tiresome would appear to be the desired affect, and therefore, such a feeling is not a valid argument for the introduction of mice into our abode.

2. Mice have no feelings, anyway.

I must ask, Tootles, where it is that you have come to believe in information such as this? I do wonder if the catnip has, perhaps, done more harm than good. I cannot imagine any character of integrity truly believing that a mouse is not, in fact, a sentient creature. Do they not learn? Do they not squeal when in pain? Do they not run when frightened? I believe the only reasonable response to this particular argument is to significantly reduce the amount of catnip you are allotted each day.

3. You need exercise.

I cannot argue with this point. You do, in fact, need more movement in your life. However, exercise can be achieved in a variety of ways that do not involve willful harm to others. While there are already many viable options for you to achieve this goal in our home, I will concede on this point and seek to purchase a laser pointer to use for your exercise, and my entertainment.

4. It will make me proud of you.

Though I have come to accept that felines, such as yourself, are quite convinced that their abilities to hunt and kill mice are worthy of accolades and praise; I need you to accept the reality that this is simply not true. Further, whether mice have been added to our dwelling purposefully or not, I'll thank you for no longer bringing your successful slaughter to my attention by placing the corpse in such places as my bed, in front of my door, or really anywhere that requires me to deal with the aftermath of your activities.

My darling Tootles, as you have probably recognized by this point, I must decline your request. While I understand and appreciate the reasoning behind your proposal, it is clear that acquiescing would be beneficial only to you. Further, it would certainly cause harm to others; including, and especially, irreparable damage to my sanity.

I do hope you understand and accept my sincerest apologies.

With love,

The big one who feeds you

You've used me

Far too greatly

Now I'm dried up

And tossed aside.

Together we went

On such wild adventures

What wonderful journeys we saw

For you to be so ungrateful

To the one that gave life

To the words that hate

And then love.

Tossed in the trash

Nothing gold ever lasts

Replaced by a cheap replica.

Put me up to a flame

Save me for a few days

But the well's dry

I've nothing to give

For all that I gave you

I will not be saved

This is the thanks that I get

Dear A.M. Lanning,

Thank you for sending your submission to Impossibly Artistic's 'Poetry Contest With a Large Cash Prize That You Have No Chance of Winning and Costs $20 To Enter' contest for 2021. Unfortunately, we have decided not to accept this piece for publication. Please know that this was a very hard decision as your poem, "My Ex Is A Dickhead and I'm Still Mad About It Four Years Later", has affected the lives of our entire team and forced many of our staffers to come to terms with the unity of the self and how one should relate to their own divinity.

It is for that reason that we ask you no longer submit any of your pieces to our publication. Impossibly Artistic continues to lose employees due to their inability to process the emotional depth and social implications of your pieces. Your work has been truly life-changing, but as with any great marvel that rears its head to humanity, it is both beautiful and dangerous and we do not wish to wield the responsibility of presenting such complexity to our fellow man.

Please do not contact us again.

Best,

Art Syfartsy

Editor

Impossibly Artistic LitMag

Dear whoever,

As I read your query letter I wept. What moved me was a sudden loss of faith in the entire writing process...and the human condition in general. You seem to have swung so low that I imagine you can see up your entire ass. Is it really possible to make something like genocide--as you stated--"a riotous romp of hilarity that puts our meaningless lives in perspective." Then, I wondered if I hated you simply because I didn't like what I was hearing or because, instead, you are bankrupt of all humanity, compassion, or any semblance of propriety in a civilized society. Have you, like the rest of us, grown extra convolutions around your limbic system to police those caveman urges that are championed in your work? Apparently not. You are your own limbic system incarnate. You are pre-civilization, antediluvian, and soulless.

The reason I wept is that there is such a person as you, capable of sending a person like me, a query like that. Perhaps I'm particular, but I don't feel you're a good fit if you've lost your fucking mind. Not only will your work not sell, it will be placed on the Internet as a caveat on what to avoid when writing a query--no, it will be prominently displayed in the "Crimes Against Humanity" Hall of Fame as the very Anti-Christ of query examples. I take your work, your sentiments, and your whole raison d'être and I purposely implement a bulimic digital maneuver upon it. I want you to die--no, I want you dead--no, I want you to have been dead for centuries--no, I want you to die all of those deaths at the same time. In fact, just fuck you. In further fact, in the words of John Irving, "Fuck you to death!" This is a very subjective business, and other agents may think differently.

In conclusion, may you enter Hell forthwith, even before you die. And just to be clear, I didn't like your query and decline to represent you.

Stronger letter to follow.