the mad ass
reaper, the devil in my gut, I try to be a good person.
the tears fall, rethinking the
trenches, slamming my anxiety.
to many big ass bills, the bed was
flooded, the neck trickling pus; it was time, it was bugging, it was inner
absence.
so damn depressed then, met her,
didn’t like her, a fucking angel—the split vibes, the dear composure, at a
feeling, somewhere deeper, it might be, we missed it.
a ram in thickets, a son on walls,
my head spinning—the grinning man, is a dangerous man, it becomes the demon
living.
I would flick a Bic, suck in a
cigarette, sipping like a damn problem; big visions, bigger delusions, I wanted
a man’s everything—her eyes, her ghosts, her knees knocking, her glory angry,
her feelings like seeping in, the last crime in God.
she would evaporate, into the
horizon, an illusion coming to visit.
who the fuck am I? Here I AM! I hold
more problems, I vanish in spirit, I woke up years early: momma, my anything;
daddy, my fury; siblings, it can’t be!
hours to the guillotine. part
human, angel, and wickedness.
stabbing a Caprice, laughing
harder, too many nervous—it seems good, the plotting, while I vanished.
the mad ass reaper, the devil in my
gut, I try to be a good person.
holding my mind, slashing my
spirit, never took to it—never felt it.
it seems superficial. it tends to
be irrelevant. most don’t understand.
