This one is not for the faint of heart.
I tried to improve it as much as I could.
It was previously titled, “To ‘Last’ Forever Alone”.
Hide the children.
becoming of you, of I, of soap—
in sink, in drainer, in tub,
make bathing unthinkable, disgusting, or
oneself ’come disgusting.
life—always coming to be,
from water to surface, then ’to, ’fore on
made—stuck in sloth,
‘bad’ or ‘worse.’
So in this life,
“no time or reason” for this discipline.
or stay seated, elsewhere;
to have—by car,
for hours, and twice eleven,
the neighbors’ active lights dance
from screen to headlights of passing cars;
one man, a son, apparently smoking
a truck, a small light—flame, as if
to appear by itself or by spirit—
such dark, pitch-black
once full, while empty.
Now lit; unafraid, and yet
My illness discerned—still questioned,
I burn, out from up.
The sweat, from hands and pits collect,
to work, avail, the empty, silent ‘no.’
depress, or die in stress—
confess the feeling: worse than ever.
And further away, in “rest,”
my imagination delivers the same piecemeal.
or “patient” with bad expectations,
in real life: incredible hesitations!
Banal, the nature, at first,
convenient, the fantasy, due
to time “lasting” alone.
In time, we play,
false love, dismay;
it resides, to the dead
-End pleasure, beside
this life, to earn once, with results
it grows, I race, to lengths not
ever achieved before.
Left arm to blame—the nerves, the stress,
my heart dead-lifting more.
Open to cause, and then to shrivel,
this freak, succumbed, hit far below, harder.
This numb—unable to feel
if ever—pull them underwater.
To tear, in sinking
my gut is sick of this corruption.
potential—with words never proved.
So cruel, my world, this world is ruled
so destined, for this oneself
could only add to ruin.
So I walk lacklustered,
’to pale, yet flustered, and strength never mustered,
in the Land of the Blind.
depressive enough, I fail to connect;
the wallflower cannot bloom in darkness.
the furnace in overtime,
for lies degrade time.
To see that nothing and everything happens,
too far ahead, you are easily: Dead.
In throws, your last, the last
what lies on the other side:
you’ve nothing to hide,
or nothing you can; you’ve died,
you’ve nothing to lose in the end.
I, myself could bail, yet still,
no love, even past death, I’ve failed.