i dont know
if it is this digital age
affecting things
but i tire of this
sterilty
vases filled with
plastic fucking flowers
no scent
nor hint of the
terminal velocity
in beauty wilting
just half measures
placeholders
artificial artistry
pantomiming the hits
with no concept
of the blisters bursting
on the tired hand
clenching the brush
the pus adding a pearlescence
to the dire angst in
perfect symmetry

some days i cannot
cut deep enough
overloaded to the point
of total numbness
but that need to write
to bleed away
this extravagance of
looming anxieties
batters the silence
nothing satisfies
everything i read screams
the things held back
marring the words
by muddying emotion
cellophane sealed pristinely
to prevent mold forming
and i need that growth
penicillin for the
abscess in my soul
the absence bleeding itself
into every aching breath
to stoke my ugly heart
into an inferno of
ashen artless agonies
disassembling beauty
to stain divinity