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
