I would bathe myself in ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
These comforts ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ for ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ new ¦¦¦¦¦¦
Places!
Oh to be out of ¦¦¦¦¦
This ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
And you,
Love, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ the ¦¦¦¦ desired!
¦¦¦ I ¦¦¦ loathe ¦¦¦ walls, streets, stones,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
All ways of traffic
You, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ flow ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ like water,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ far out of this!
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ enough!
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Alien people!
(Blackout of The Plunge by Ezra Pound)
I still wrestle the vessel,
that spread till it nestled.
It seeded, impeded,
then fed on what bled!
Now I can't seem to find,
all the shrapnel behind.
Like an ostrich, instead,
that just buries his head, in sand...
...castles that keep, cheap seated,
seats the lowliest class.
They just wiggle and squirm,
just like worms up my...
...and as deeper they go,
like this carnival show,
that teases then breezes,
away with my dough!
I’m struggling to stand on my own two legs.
I’m struggling to spell the word “me”
as it’s been the only thing I’ve talked about.
I’m struggling to help those in need of help
without mentioning the word “me”
I’m struggling to talk to the person I love the most.
I’m struggling to want to take a shower every night.
I’m struggling to have the want to study for a test
that I know I’ll fail if I don’t.
I’m struggling to have the want to go to dance.
the need for dance.
i’m struggling to make an effort to survive.
“Don’t you mean live?”
no.
Crumb
li
ng
Beneath the deadweight of a broken dream.
Scared, I mean scarred enough to make the novocaine scream.
Fal
l
en
Are the feathers of an angel's wing,
Treated like an animal.
Another broken thing—
And I tied my cilice myself,
With the same hands that made a noose to reenact the times I almost drowned.
With every step I take, I raise a tiny hallelujah—
As the cilice bites my thighs and no one knows.
No one knows the paean I'm humming,
the red excoriation blooming under denim.
The way every barb kisses my skin like a lover
who doesn't ask for dinner first.
The cilice is my parish,
Every crimson bead is an unanswered prayer.
And here I genuflect before a god of pain,
Then come the vespers at the porcelain alter.
Pouring out scriptures written in acid,
While enacting kenosis as the holy water swirls away.
Absolution circles clockwise, Down a throat of porcelain. Somewhere beneath the floorboards Heaven has a drainage system.
And with a growl I say amen.
If this is salvation,
Why does it taste like violence?
~Kynsie~
Many decades have passed since I was last with you.
That time still haunts me as talking was hard to do.
My emotions for you continue to be strong.
Loving you since seventeen is much like lifelong.
I cannot find you or yours, even now online.
For a long time that has chilled me from heart to spine.
We were twenty when shade came down over our sun.
Your Mother called with words that shot me like a gun.
Entering your hospital room, the world went boom.
Your eyes saw me without expression or your bloom.
I ached as you trip talked bi-polar antisense.
My love and concern churned pieces of fears intense.
I never fully knew me until I met you.
At seventeen, we grew views seeking hidden clues.
You left the ground with me so we might better see.
We pushed against all boundaries blocking our free.
When our flying wings had barely spread from teen dreams,
we promised to lifelong gentle the others stream.
It was at your bedside that my heart first slow died.
Next day, you were gone, staff had no info or lied.
Your parents ignored their phone and soon sold their home.
That’s why I write and drop letters in yards with gnomes.
The moon mocks me,
cutting through the room uninvited,
bleaching a night that feels heavy,
pitch-black, and absolute.
Inside, the chest is just an echo chamber—
grief rattling against a heart that’s still young,
still trying to breathe,
still hopefully naive.
Then the familiar intensity floods back.
Memories hit like a high-speed chase,
uncaring and dangerous,
proving that time doesn't heal a thing—
it just stays.
Gasping for air,
you’re just a silhouette,
a shadow staring straight up
into a dead, starless sky,
begging the dark for a rewind button.
Were you ever actually significant before this?
No applause in this silence.
The question just sits there—
unread.
Isolated, bitter,
mind running on a loop—
does anyone even care,
or is everyone just surviving?
Tears blur,
pools of tasteless salt...
and the dark doesn't move.
Visual Art: The accompanying background image was generated using AI assistance to visually capture the modern, nocturnal mood and atmospheric themes described in my original poem.
Mental Gymnastics-
That every day hustle of
Dodging c contributions,
Decoding half-truths,
Stretching patience past its
Breaking point.
Folks profess they didn't say
What they said,
Act like you imagined the
Whole conversation,
And expect you to bend your
Common Sense
Just to keep the peace.
I'm done doing cartwheels
For confusion.
I'm done flipping over red
Flags
Just to make someone else
Comfortable.
My mind ain't a circus.
My boundaries ain't unstable.
Mental Gymnastics is the
Sport they play-
But I retired from that
League.
I walk straight.
I speak straight
I see straight.
Let them twist themselves,
I stay grounded.
A Drink with an Old Friend:
Like a criminal,
I'm caught red handed —
As I return the scene of the crime.
But I don't understand it,
It's not mine.
No, I didn't plan it.....
Noose around my neck,
And trauma did the damage.
Reenactment....
Drowning in the fractures,
Of my melted face.
Again I ask,
Who am I today?
Isn't time just a place?
Does identity disappear,
When bones are ground into paste?
When even the mirror,
Reflects my empty space.
Red is the flesh,
Dipped in my own blood.
Stained is the page,
With a cruel heart called love.
Swaying in time,
Like the pendulum of the clock.
As I turn towards death and simply laugh.
I've been dying.....
Ever since my first bath.
Come on Mr. Grim,
If you won't take me—
Why don't we just hang.
Here have a cigar,
I'll pour you a glass.
Let's raise a toast,
To the pain long past.
~D34d-1~
*In regards to Repetition Compulsion
Got bedbugs in my belly
Frogmen made of jelly
Sour, shallow, pools of pity
My hollow, wallow city
Jeepers Creepers on my trail
Crypt Keeper tells my tale
My flaccid finger fumbles
Then thunder rolls and rumbles
Hi-Yo Silver! Trigger falls!
My King Crimson stains the walls!
Then the black drips from my eyes!
Jackson Pollock wins the prize!
On the foot, I look the last time,
Waiting by the drizzling time
Thinking as I took a high on river bridge lies the line
'Dunno’, yh I don’t know
How to swim? How to be fine?
Deep in my thoughts, once again I climb,
Stretching across the brink.
Think I’ve to think a thing —
Just washed away by a blink.
Is this the end of the life I lived?
Who knows to carry off the bliss in hollow prime?
Ugly sudden stroke, a jerk, a mirror
Crackling through the aurora of pink sunset
'Help! Help!'
I looked, but it was hazy — tears had vagued my sight
An old woman drowning in the river,
Swept by the heavy flow
Do the empty, balding patches on my head express it to you?
How I’ve stayed silent
just so you could heal?
How I’ve cried endless nights over you,
just so I don’t ruin you any more than I have.
How you don’t even care to look me in the eyes
at dance or to even watch me dance.
How you dare to even say
“I don’t want a hug from you.”
To my face,
mind you.
Something I would never dare to do to you,
because I would be scared if I hurt you.
What have I done to deserve such hate?
What can I do to reverse it?
What have I done for you to not even look at me?
What can I do to reverse it?
What can I do to help you?
nothing.
They say you can’t count hairs,
but you sure can count the friends you’ve lost.
378 hairs.
only 7 friends.
Fright-type, which brings up, welt-like
The idea of
The mind being itself whipped.
No quick shock's back-shove!
I feel like I remember
What better was,
But I can't see it
as clear as I see my flaws.
Yet there is proof.
In photos and videos,
a memory of who I am,
that feels like an echo.
Cause I can see it
past the clouds of gray,
That yes, in fact, there was
Such a thing as a good day.
Days where my thoughts
didn't always win.
Days where a negative magnet
didn't pull the positive from within.
I try to catch a glance,
forcing my way into that moment,
back when I wasn't saving energy
for my mind's endless torment.
I've entered every password
that used to work before.
All those “get better” tasks,
but they're not working anymore.
But I can't remember.
It doesn't matter how hard I try.
I'm locked out of my own system,
with an error code.
Telling me to die.
There was never a specific moment when I knew it was over
It could have been the first time breath refused to fill my lungs
Or when my own voice first shouted vile things inside me head
Maybe it was when I reached for that blade with shaky hands not knowing I would never put it down
Or when the shouting changed from mine to those whom I love
Perhaps it was when the cold sting of steel no longer made things go quiet
But I guess the first moments aren’t really the ones that matter as in the end they all lead to my last
Stubbed my toe but I’m still dead.
Moments feel like organs.
And hours are my taste buds tasting organs.
It feels like I’m dead like paint chips crumbling.
It’s like being born as a centipede over and over.
That’s why stuff happens faster.
Blink and your toe pops off in a field of nowhere.
This is like a severe mental illness.
Except that I have most of my eyes and fingers.
Eat a donut like nothingness.
Stubbed my toe and fell asleep.
Sometimes you need a sharp pain.
Like a tree needs branches trimmed.
Stubbed my toe but still have hallucinations.
It takes so much.
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