"The Nauseating Sound of Emotional Vomit," in D minor

The process

of ceasing to believe

does not end with adulthood

but death.

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The only pity allowed

is self pity.

And only as long as

you keep it

to yourself.

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Whose life am I living?
The shoulders in this town

just don’t fit right

-a little too big for me-

and it doesn’t keep out

the wind and cold

the way I’d like…

It may be a good

deal but I’m not sure

it’s worth buying if

I might never be

comfortable

in it.

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Who is she,
Windy,
gusty hard blowing

hot and cold blasts

down roads lined with

shoulder-to-shoulder brick buildings…

Rising off the water liked a Bond
bombshell double agent, the highs

and lows of imagination seen in her

sway as she lands on the loud streets

creating and parting the gathering

scattering crowds before her;

The hardness of the city rises

to meet, penetrate, push her away

or pull her down;

but onwards, she crawls and scrapes,

rips and glides her way to the vast

open plains beyond

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I wish I didn’t need to write
to feel, to know my own self.

That feeling seen didn’t feel so

revealing, this feeling is revolting

and risking repulsion I internally cower

and cover and close-off myself.

No body wants to be
so seen
while so alone.

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At what

point do

you realize

the problem

is you?