Suffer.

She will,
only become,
aware of,
the severity,
in the things,
that she,
has insistently,
gone and done,
when she admits,
to the obvious shifts,
in the gazes of,
the Almighty Ones;
she will,
finally be outdone,
deep inside of,
the smoking barrel,
of a black market gun,
will she submit,
to the things,
that she’s let,
grow into beasts?
Or will,
the darkness,
finally,
swallow her,
in totality,
just to make,
itself regurgitate,
her existence,
repeatedly;
the day will come,
undoubtedly,
a day that makes,
today seem sweet,
like times of joy,
full of ease,
gobble them,
swallow them,
get down,
on your knees,
a day will come,
that defines suffering.

Blood-Soaked Breadcrumbs.

Stopping at

the ledge,

I lean over to see

a life left behind

of you

a future ahead of me

and, it isn’t pretty

not a single thing;

standing out against

a backdrop

of teardrops,

raining down

pelting skin;

Fingers curling tightly,

insurance of

my own grip

chambered,

by my own hand

precisely,

for such a trip

see my footing slip;

crumbling

boulders,

beneath my feet;

have I actually

fallen ever so,

blindly,

into the lap

of my enemy?

Loaded gun,

pressed against

a temple,

shots commence –

my heart,

so begrudging –

my eyes,

so disbelieving;

of the stories

that the truth

is telling me;

Leaving trails of

blood-soaked

breadcrumbs

in a soggy line;

it goes behind,

a familiar time

of martyrdom

that unfailingly,

and unsparingly

will stake claim to

whatever life’s

left of mine.

Vomitting Warmth.

I don’t know,
but every time
that I think
things are fine,
a tiny fracture
a hair-line
in the aftermath
left behind…

I don’t speak,
much anymore
because it hurts
same as before,
hammering home
chiseled score
through the bone
tap into the core…

I don’t see,
so well these days
with the sunshine
burning my face,
sizzling holes,
saving grace
vomiting warmth
all over the place…

I don’t care if the world,
burns down out there
travel be the flames
easily on the air,
burning, abroad
licking everywhere…

Shivers and splinters
cross-hairs and blood,
iron and cobblestone
nails, screws and wood,
I fill up my bag just like
you taught me I should
then I wait like a statue
in the place you once stood…

tears mixed with raindrops
taste an awful lot like blood.