Nothing comes easily
and no one can tell you
how it is.

No one can explain
how much time
all of this takes.

What living
can make of the dead,
and what dying
can make of life.

You'll be lonely
and horny;
and those who care
of your loneliness
will not ease your body.
And those who
will ease your body
will not care
for your loneliness.

You will become a shell.
An infinite void of poetic
living, but only
if you so choose to.

The easiest way
is to not realize
that its painful,
and the realistic way
is not easy.
Nothing that is worth arriving
comes easily.

So take your autistic child,
brother, sister, cousin,
and know them
and their road.

Take your coworkers,
bosses, colleagues,
and saints,
and relinquish
distinctions of personality.

Every mind
is the mind.
Every thought
us the only thing
that makes us what we are.
Alive.

Cut your skin
with thin blades
to ease the torment.
Stack scar upon scar
and then wake up
knowing that there
is no turning back now.

Your poetic soul is screaming,
and you are aware of the mystery.

What does it take to live?

I once learned, that there are
only two kinds of courage.
The courage to live
and the courage to die.
What strength guides you?

My chasms
of blackened depth
have not much more to say
but all the more
to feel.

Meet me
right
here.