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Poem
Humble yesterday, your intimate memories are now
bearing false witness, following our demise. 
There are scattered whispers of a residential cloud 
nine, that I called my own after the storm. 
No myth could be written guiltier. 
For beyond this stable armor of masculinity, 
existed a worst case scenario that I had obtained. 

It is no fault of your own, to interpret me with the 
simplest guess, and yet, it would be the greatest 
therapeutic comfort, knowing that you recalled my 
brief torture. Here it reads. 

The cruelest servant was obviously day one. 
For as I showered in my own gloom, the clearest 
joy accepted no hint of my presence. 
The hours worked overtime to deplete every page 
of life, that bordered around this broken clockwork 
of loneliness. 

By now I merely existed by priorities merciless 
hand. As I forced myself upon my studies, there was 
no absence of absent guilt on call. 
I realized this inevitable misstep, the moment I 
stumbled into a single entity yet again. 
By the time I found a conscience to shave towards 
a better day, spring had already departed, 
and I was just beginning to exit sobrieties 
unbearable cliff. 

The cause to blame beyond myself was tempting;
to see the bewildered scene, as opposed to feeling 
its complex wounds. 
I yearned for this flood to cease constantly, in 
retrospect, prematurely. 
However, the suffering hadn’t pierced my spirit just 
yet. That cherry that ultimately left a mark on top 
was my sick eyes. 

Perhaps defined as the perfect fate for the already 
faltered, was my cluttered throat, which 
allowed no apologetic cliques to exist in air. 
The devil’s vomit that would not pause until 
more suffering regurgitated, and lastly, 
the mindful ache that vibrated at its own
intervals. 

Friends could sense the hell that plagued my 
sleep. So much that they offered their similar 
battles to my faint ears. 
I heard their souls, but never their hearts; only 
mine was selfish enough for that luxury, despite 
its hostile coma. But then, 5 months, 22 days, and 
4 afternoon hours later, another chapter was introduced, 
and it was entitled The Aftermath. 

The acceptance of what could only be formerly 
beautiful, came to be the answer that cured me. 
In the end, I was thankful for the inferno, and 
overjoyed that these words could be written from 
Solomon’s throne. 

Previous rose, as you open and fold these heartfelt 
abrasions, be mindful of these moments that are no
longer bleeding, but rather teaching, of those bullets 
that never truly miss.
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