early mornings and late evening

it never fails
to astound me
when someone says
they understand
what i am saying
when i paint the screen
with bloody scratches
spilled ink
to fill in
necrotic wounds
torn open
in the pursuit
of beauty

the poor bastards
breathing the fumes
of my agony
seeking an answer
as if this trash
carries any more meaning
than the half smile
of leonardo in drag
looking for something
in this absence
where hope and joy
are razor blades
drawing dream
to well up in
crimson kisses while
the brittle overwhelms
once supple wonders

it’s all as real
as washington’s wooden teeth
the solace of
painted faces proclaiming
freedom for all
while ignoring their own
starving slaves
working the fields
to keep the wheels
of equality turning
writing garbage
hoping someone sees
the false depth
seeking whatever
illusions necessary
to convince the right
chemicals to dump
and take the edge off of
what we see obscured
in a mess of misaligned
daydream obsessions

the clarity of
early morning and
late evenings
leaves the rest of the day
feeling hollow
as we pack as much motion
into not thinking about
the things that
slowly crush us to dust
ignoring the seconds
fading away as we draw
ever closer to death
and silently longing
for that sweet release
while hammering chisels
to mark our names
on the same stones
the winds of time
eroded from mighty mountains
future generations
will have to sift through
the jigsaw pieces
only to misspell
our fucking names

there is no meaning
to be found in a fool
pissing into the wind
and lamenting a lack
of an umbrella
no deeper truth
to be found in the scars
of self inflicted atrocities
just a kinship in
embracing miseries
as my arms are feeling empty
from where she should be
held tight to my skin
the vacancy where
my heart is an echo
a canary with no tune
warbling broken notes
dying by inches
and desperate for more

there is no solace
in these hallow halls
just tattered threads
to be picked at
worried edges to
light on fire
while watching the
happy little flames
consume the stillness
ignoring the blisters
seeking miniscule moments
where the ochre pus
as viewed through teary eyes
is like a monet
dripping on the floor

we all die alone
some of us poor bastards
are cursed with seeing
we live that way as well
early mornings
and late evenings
all that seperate us
from the vermin
gnawing mindlessly
at a quilt of dream


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