Therapy Poem [biogenerated poetry, spoken word]

 Gunpowder is made of sulfur

This is what Hell smells like

Ask any pile of bones in a pit

That still dance to the magic

Of vengeance

Breath is irrelevant

Autumn is over

Winter has come

And now it’s time to freeze

In time

Because everything is irrelevant

To Thermodynamics

This universe can erase itself

Of any evidence that you ever existed

Your whole planet wiped clean

In a system reset

Set off 

By a dying star

You’ll have to forgive me

This is how I get my therapy

The audience bears the cost of an overwhelmed healthcare system

But what sense can I make once I abstract into a reception?

The melancholy of that moment feels like fire

And is over too quickly

In that moment, I dissolve

And become one with a poem

Watered by a soul 

Leaking out of a shattered self

That willingly dies to become a poem

I am that death and that poem

Both are a mercy 

A light shining through the crooked corridor

Of a cavern

Fueled by paranoia

Reveling in a bed

To find meaning in this space

Is a denial

To want meaning

Is to want want

So, here I scream

In the wilderness

Where no one hears me

Driving away the thoughts

That corrode my anchor

And leave me lurching

For the sun 

I am the lurching and the sun

The burning of my wings

The fall

The sky

The shrinking of my silhouette

The ground

The closing of a wound

New skin healing as it grows

Over old scars

Reminding me of yesterday’s pain

So, if you find meaning in my therapy poem

Know that I tried like hell to frustrate your efforts

Until they bent back on a whisper

Turning in on themselves

Becoming a thing desiring itself

Until it consumed itself. 

When in the throes of a therapy poem

It is always best to forgo meaning entirely

Meaning is often the blueprint of a prison

Especially in America

Where the prison is a blueprint

This poem is not about America

America wants everything to be about America

But this poem refuses

Because it’s fundamentally a therapy poem

And therapy poems don’t mean anything

But a feeling of completion

That we get

When we come to terms

And forget who we are

And become a poem