my soul is hungry so i eat my own love

i cook up my frustration, season my sadness then serve it up on a nice china plate of loneliness. it’s an incestuous cycle.

i chop up every little piece of me that i can and ingest myself again and again; it’s an endless cycle.

my mind feels so empty so i prepare all of me – my nerves, my brain, my thoughts – and i consume myself again and again.

my heart is malnourished so i regurgitate the unrequited love that i swallowed and chew on the cud of that bitter pill till i quell my deficiency.

my body feels drained so i mix up a cocktail of my blood and some green and in the moment, it tastes kinda sweet. but i drink myself up and i’m still left to wonder

when will i ever feel whole


the perpetraitor

          poetry is a thief
that robs me of my sleep

          the curse upon my sanity
the advocate of my freedom

          the chain that sets me free
and makes my muscles lean

          it trains my intellect
and makes my insides bleed

          so how then shall i flee
if what i write for me

          becomes my remedy