Mad

So much disappointment; and what have we given—receiving

hell? But count me in on this death, damn near passed out.

Such a hangover, ten shots in, pardoning mother’s betrayal.

I’ve trusted you with everything—fully grieving, kneeling on

our behalf, forced to trek poison. And what; damn your love!—

I can’t feel the light. What have we given, drinking tears, drunk

off pain? I’m found, lost to the dregs, fully excavated—so

damn your love!

I’ve been flying: pain grips, liberates and enslaves—I’m nearly

gone! It’s hard to utter some names—freezing in a desert—

frenzied and stable: “Tell me your life!”

So much disappointment; and yours akin to mine—dying as

a blossomed rose. Can you remember all the late nights,

nodding, and passing out? What is this pain!

I gave life to a carcass—and she soon forgets. If not for my eyes,

broken and fallin’ apart—dear God!

I’m mad, sick, and disgusted—and what; “The nights are

stressing tulips.” So meet us at a graveyard, mourning the dead;

and meet us at the souls, screaming: "If not for God!"