this pen.
is my rusty nail.
leaving scars in my palm
in the wake of this
daily.crucifixion.

and I'd like to state- that I am nothing original
wisping overused words that mean little.
when I'm counting star-drops
and playing connect-the-dots with
my fa(u)ltered breathing. existing.
is all one can do- when...

and I'm no- broken record.
that's so retro. it just seems as if
my finger is lingering. on the repeat.button
maybe this time.
I can mean what I bleed.

bleeding. is as overrated as breathing.
and I like to scream at the moments
I'll never forget- as if time cares.
because it's the only father figure. I have.

and so. I'm speaking/ in broken fragments.
because anything more fractured than me
-obviously. makes me look better in comparison.
and who wouldn't want to look
into a shattered mirror. and see a saint.
cracked facial features. and a lopsided smile.
picasso would be proud.


so this burnt heart
is the only reminder now.
of this daily.crucifix(a)tion. bury me.
because being born was a big enough burden.
the first time.

and they tell me- this is art.
I say this is perversion of perception.
look closer.



you.cant.see[me]