Death's Hand

Death's hand is on my shoulder,
     I am not afraid
     I am not happy
     I simply exist.

He holds it there for a while,
     I do not question
     I do not cry
     I simply exist.

I hear his warm laugh in my ear,
     I will not shutter
     I will not flinch
     I simply exist.

Death's touch is cold like fire,
     I feel not burned
     I feel not frozen
     I simply exist.

Death looks at me, eyes empty sockets,
     I can not see
     I can not move
     I simply exist.

He kisses softly my lips like razors,
     I bleed
     I crumble
     I die.

The Return of Morning

Morning strikes; she is a viper

digging her fangs deep into my veins

and poisoning my breath and paralyzing me.

My antidote a poison, kiss of death,

quickening the process of my demise

as the toxins fill my body twice as strong.

A placebo taken daily for weeks

does nothing to protect, weakens my immunity,

my pupils shrink to the glaring light,

and heat boils my blood, painfully welcomed.

My antidote simmers in the hot springs

enjoying the blissful sauna across his frigid skin,

dried and cracking to allow the venom access

to my veins, rolling and rushing, 

and becoming absorbed throughout my body.

Morning clasps; she is a viper

unaware of time, unlike me

worried as each minute, tick-tock, slowly passes.

He, unhurried, leisurely strolls beside her,

King and Queen united to mock the pained

jester and every second further, tick-tock, 

they laugh and deride his displeasure,

Schadenfreude, they caused and savor,

as my breath shortens with tighter lungs.

The bitter saliva mixes harshly with my blood,

the antidote just dancing in the frothy reaction

like a child in a bubble bath, maniacally cackling,

as the majestic duo filter through my body

quicker than ever before, and she abandons 

her carcass in my rotting flesh.

Morning rests; she is a viper

finished poisoning her victim and patient,

allowing the plan to consummate with time

and the antidote to finish me with no chance

of survival.  He will course through my veins

and arteries like sewage, my body pitiful,

heart weakened and organs ceasing.

My sanctuary and peace erupts in war

with no chance of victory for the defense.

My antidote slays me limb by limb

as the viper mistress cackles with supremacy.

I try to hide myself in the darkness

where her light cannot reach but my antidote

lures me to her radiance as my vitality

is dripping on the carpeted floor.

He kisses me; he is the poison

that feeds the fiery anguish inflicted by the serpent.

He riles my senses to shambles 

and I crash into the hard slab mattress again.

His smile transforms to a sneer

and he punctures my skin from the inside.

Strong and deceptive he scorches my nerves

and suffocates me with depression.

Tears of toxic torment drip maliciously downward

Tearing through my skin and scaring the remains

with a sharp infected dagger, my antidote.

He pummels through me, the antagonist of my nightmares,

destroying any hope of reconstruction

without reason, and couples with the morning,

viper of death, so they can escape together.

Who

I thought she liked me, but she liked him
Of course she did, although he doesn't return the feelings
and he is in love with this other girl and she doesn't know yet
that she actually loves him back...
But then it will never happen because it is the wrong place
and wrong time, but they will argue about it for a while.

But I still like her, even though she doesn't feel the same,
because she is still doing that let-me-lead-you-on thing
since she can, and I cannot blame her even though
I am annoyed by all of that...
But she still wants that guy who is into that other girl
that lives down the street from him, 'cause that always works.

It is this giant mess of confusion of who likes who
where the reciprocity of it all is nonexistent... and frustrating.

Caressing Touch

Lacerate my spleen

let the ooze of stale optimism

and dreams seep 

out into the cold rancor 

of your breath.

Obliterate my heart

splitting it to chambers

to capture the rotting

rust of my veins and

suffocate my lungs.

Leave me to die

in the ground near a swamp

to not be visited

no tombstone or memory

just destruction.

Anonymity

Dear reader,

I do not really know what to call this.

Perhaps it is best labeled as prose,

or an anonymous letter to an anonymous reader,

where the grammar and structure have been contorted

to fit more of what I want it to,

instead of formality.

It originally was intended as a beautiful poem,

rhythmically leaping from word to word,

rhyming scheme of ABAB,

something that would have made Wordsworth proud.

But instead, it is this.

People told me that I would never make it 

as a writer, and even if I did who would have cared?

Profound words must obey a character limit

and include some sort of ingenious 

humorous and spiritual social motif that perpetuates

itself to be replicated, and I do not have that.

All I have is an uncommon thought,

that is reviled by my own peers

and ignored by the growing societal commonality,

which implores the detachment of person and name

and allows anonymity to persist,

instead of creating characters in smoke and mirrors.

The nightmare of recognition propagates itself

to surpass our dreams of invisibility since the screams

of true identification cannot permeate through 

a faded idea of hearsay, and so we grow as 

monsters ransacking through darkness for light.

In brevity I write this to explain

that the anonymity that I am falling from is not desired,

but rather a conscription to fight with the world

by using weapons of designation.

However, the fantasy of my existence 

relies on something more than my signature.

Cheers,

Anonymous