I don’t know why
I disapprove of this so much.
Out of blackened, seared, ache
come the best words,
tasting like wasabi.
They scorch and will burn,
if I hang onto them too long.
Cry your putrid heart out.
Closed fist
punch the wall.
I’ll smile over this later.
This is a distorted reality,
I’m currently taking self-portraits
red-faced with tears of anger.
I’ve made myself a glutton
and my eating habit
has been thoughts of you
that never materialize
into more than sentences


And here

And here.