a bullet to the wound, and
a bullet to the mind
can rarely be as sublime
as the pangs of a charred heart
a knife to the navel, or
a blow that ruptures out the blood in your guts, and then
your guts all artistically spilled out
are rarely as comprehensive
as the tunes the mind can take
if the moment were to breathe
and if these moments were to grow
i wonder what we could make with
a spastic mind harvesting a dark undercurrent
and deep undergrowth
torrential rain can water much dust
and clean much dirt
but beyond the pain begone
it can only pick up the remains of a mutilated carcass
it can only wash away the morbidity of the infected soul
nothing can revive it
not even the torrential rain
but if society and i had a choice
i'd prefer a clean road
and we do have a choice
the blushes of the trees
and the faces of the plants
only appear as murderers now
the gaze of lights like a flesh-eater on the prowl
every object around me like a fiend
waiting to rape me and crumple me
as i crack in every bone
i'd invite them all and let them have their way
but that would be too simple
i deserve much more
the bed i sit on engulfs me
like a coffin would spit out a corpse
the wires around me dangle. as if
waiting to rip me until my skin is red
they are the foot soldiers of beloved enemy
i can either concede or suffer
the choice has always been mine
i can only concede or suffer
and i do have a choice
