Day 3

The blank page intimidates me
I have a song stuck in my head that I don’t like
I have my playstation sitting in the living room tainted
I have a buzzing in my stomach that spreads through my limbs
That cow girl flashes by and I wonder why I give a fuck
I don’t but I do
I can’t help myself
It’s a cover
A focus for the unfocused gnawing
The blood pours out and chunks
I’ve forgotten my brain pills again
I’ve forgotten them for weeks
I suck down cigarettes and cough up phlegm
I desperately need a distraction
I need work
I need to work
I need to work well
I need to learn to write poetry
This is but a rant written when nothing else would come
My attempt at distraction
My desire to fling it on the blank page staring
To rid myself

I won’t count down on the calendar
I won’t look at it
Let it flip back to September
Should remember my pills
Buy a trunkfull of candles
I’ll mourn you again
I always do
But this time with a trunkfull of candles
And maybe some blood that doesn’t chunk
Just flows
A burnt offering
To your floating particles
That couldn’t find a road to heaven
Because it doesn’t exist
And now you don’t exist
These past ten years
And I’ve barely existed
Except for when I’ve been alive

I could try to honor the memory of rob
But I doubt he deserves it
He was the first man who had something
To teach me
He won’t ever be the last

Come on
Come save me boys
You all want a piece
To uncover the mystery
And patch it over
I’ve let you feel my soft parts
I’ve covered you with my blood
But you’re still hungry
And want something boneless for a snack
For a meal
For your life

I dreamed dan pumped me full of blood
I screamed for him to stop
But he just watched the screen
And played his plastic guitar
When I started to overgrow
To expand and burst
I woke up
And he was there
Sucking his teeth
And nursing a hard on

The bruises have all healed
But he picks my scabs
He says it’s good for me
To develop calluses
Like him
But I like the sense of touch
And I’ve tried to explain
You can’t get a callus from picking your scabs
But only gangrene and scars
He has built up my scar tissue
It makes it harder for him
To find soft places to stick the knife
I cross my arms over my head
And whimper at his approach

There is a story in this rant
But I have not sculpted it
Not since I became suspicious
That I am driftwood
Not marble

I count my scars
Drink my coffee
Smoke my cigarettes
My stomach buzzes
And extends through my limbs
And I think why do I care?
I don’t but I do