All I want is to fill this page with words. Good, strong words. A sentence or two. Here or there an interjection. I don't expect to create the next "Pride and Prejudice" or "Jane Eyre-" not on the first try. 

I'm a writer. That's what I say to everybody. My friends, family, professors. If I don't write, am I lying? Or maybe just joking. That's what I'll tell myself for now. 

I'm not Shakespeare. I'll never be Shakespeare. But at least let me write about Shakespeare! 

It's so late at night. So very, very late, and I'm tired. But I can't sleep- or rather, I won't let myself sleep. Not until I write!  

This is sounding so nonsensical. Not even in a good, post-modern way. I never understood post-modernism anyhow. 

All I want to do is fill this page with words. Good, strong words.  A sentence or two. That's all. 

it could be

because i didnt eat

that much today:

not much of an appetite

to keep my going

keep me focused

keep those grades up

in chem where theyre slipping

or maybe its

somatizing

something mom told me about

a big word that means

"youre stressed and youre bodys hurting itself"

so whats the use of cutting or drugs then

when your body can just

self-destruct all on its own

your bomb-vest wasnt strapped on

tight enough

and your boat capsized

you sank into

the bits of inky tar despair

grabbing my ankle

and dragging me down with you

©SelfTitled, 2017

I enjoy the ones who use words like paradigm and empirical.

Those folk surely have it all together

Not me, though. Little me. I’m just a rotting vegetable eating meat sack, marinating and languishing in my own juices.

Having said that, yesterday, the veins - my veins - broke through this crazy, crawling concrete skin, exiting out and snaking off in all directions, seeking something, anything to bond with other than me, their host.

At least that was the impression I got based on available evidence.

This made me quite a bit sad. Have I become so difficult to live with that my insides want to be outside?

Betrayal is not a strong enough word.

Taking stock of what was left of myself, I tried calming and centering, adopting an arbitrary approach to what was clearly an outrageous and embarrassing situation.

I spoke in thought to my evacuating innards, explaining to the tyrannic tributary traitors

that without me, they were nothing. This was a codependent coexistence and I was its front man.

Prying a pulmonary from a chair leg, I carefully folded it back inside my chest cavity, only to have the mutinous bastard work its way back through my fingers and wrap itself around the TV.

This vena labyrinth of tissue and plasma that had invaded my once living room was now a prison.

I resembled a grotesque, emaciated octopus. Or that alien from Alien 2.

I've dealt with rejection all my life, but nothing could ever prepare me for something of this magnitude

Hell, I've had the pin pulled on me by the best. Generally what happens is they walk away shaking their heads and blaming our association on either a momentary lapse of reason or alcohol or both. I never worried that much; never been big on attachment anyway.

I was an only child that was very much poisoned early on by his own company.

Never always this detached though.

The kicker was the day my imaginary friend ripped my heart out.

“Its not you, it’s me,” said Randell, as he left via a portal at the rear of my closet. I shut down that day.

Moving along.

I haven't budged from this blood soaked sectional sofa in something like 22 hours.

The veins - my veins - have anchored themselves to a variety of heavy objects, and I am pinned down and being held to ransom by my own body. A body I thought I knew well. A body that, until recently, I had no reason to mistrust.

I hate to moan, though. We all have our problems in life. This just took me by surprise, is all, and I really need a change of underwear.

I'll bounce back, no doubt. I always do, albeit anemic and pissed off. And I will extract fair revenge.

I will hammer each and every one of those traitorous scumbags with whatever low-grade heroin I can find, or I will die trying. This is personal.

Cheers

I didn't know the meaning of love until I was 10 years old. His name was Daniel and he still thought girls had cooties. I couldn't blame him, although it did not help me in my pursuit for his heart.

I am 13 years old now, and it's been two years since I last saw him. As ridiculous as it is, I haven't stopped loving him. Many people tell me I'm too young to know what love is, but I don't think that's true. What else can explain the feeling I get when I think about him? Last time I checked, humans don't have butterflies growing in their tummies. None of my other friends have ever felt this way even though they have had twice as many boyfriends than me. I think that what holds their relationship together is the genuine curiosity that teenagers often have; a curiosity of what it's like to be older and more mature.

Nothing’s been the same since you

died

no matter how I slice it

no matter how I see it

no matter how much time attempts some bullshit move to heal it

You were in my blood and you will stay in my

blood

until my blood stops

and dries

your love and roots and every

bit of fur haunt me

no matter where I run

no matter which continent

or bar or highway

your little ghost

sits, sleeps, rides shotgun

your eyes the faintest of blue

looking wise in the sunshine

across the parks and ponds and lakes

and coasts

your little heart beating big enough

for my own

your belly against my palm

in all those shitty rooms

in shitty towns

or in the beds of

shitty women

you always knew I had

guts when nobody else

did

and you always knew I’d

pull us up and out of anywhere

we despised

closer to me than any human

will get

deeper under my skin than

my own bones

so far into my heart you’re still

the center

and though

your daddy was in jail

when you had to die

and though I don’t believe

in angels or anything beyond

carbon

you came to see me the first night

you were gone

and I held you on the slab in

the cell and fell asleep with my

hand on your stomach one last time

before you went off

to do something greater

than I could ever imagine

I want to take this afternoon

to tell you that I love you more than

anything

and no sacrifice I’ve ever made

to keep you

could hold a candle to how much

I still love you

six years past your

death

and I want to tell you here

that because of you

I know what unconditional love means

and if you were here now

I’d buy you the best of everything

even though you wouldn’t have

any idea what that means

but your little brother is almost

eleven now,

and he’s happy

and I still talk about you

and his tail still wags at the mention

of your name

and there’s even a little

girl in the mix now

she looks something like you

which is why she’s here

and while it’s true she doesn’t have your

shrewd, moody genius

I know you’d be proud that

I gave her a home

and on days like this

when the whiskey’s half gone

and I’m lost out on the road

while I wait for things to come through

while I cross my fingers and hope

things start to make sense

while I wait for the spines and brains around

me to grow

while tricky assholes have

siphoned my money

while I either do or do not

wait for eminent failure

or success

the Sun sits high and warm

and shines a beautiful

orange across the desert

while I sit in a hotel and

drink whiskey

to disappear back into

the days when you were

here

when I was alive

and we watched each other

swim

anywhere we chose

to swim

and while I’m sitting here

drunk

and staring into

darkness

I want to take this

moment

to tell you

I still love you.

Steamy.

Sizzling.

All that spice.

Sultry.

Smoking.

My, that's nice.

There are secrets of his body you know - the curve of his collarbone, the weight of his hips on yours, the way his fingertips write stories into your stomach - that you probably shouldn't. His lips always taste like something unfamiliar, his eyes always looking a little bit beyond you as if there was someone else, and you know with all the ache in your chest that there probably is. Loving, you have learned, is really just saying goodbye, and lying next to him has always felt like a farewell. 

Languid,

like the shape you make

when you pour your coffee.

Impossible,

like the turns you take

when you drive us through the city.

Silent,

like the moments we fake

when there is nothing to say.

I can destroy you;

but I play nice and fill your

empty body with lies, humming

a song of your disgrace

that you agonize

again 

           and 

                   again

                             and

                                      again.

I am the eighth sin 

that never existed; 

I am a lie that my 

seven siblings were guilty of telling