poemguy

[poemguy]

Colorado (A Vacation Poem)

Car on gravel—

feet on pavement—

Either way I am free

Either way I am gone

Longing for travel—

but never knowing what it meant—

Either way I’ll just be

Either way I’ll be gone

A homebody unraveled—

using courage well spent—

Either way I’m now me

In either way that I’ve gone

[poemguy]

CW: Suicidal ideation, general emo-ness

Paint-Stained Hands

I want the dirty in me.

I wanna leave paint marks everywhere I go.

I want this body, these hands to feel broken in,

Because then it means I was here

And that I was my own.

I this skin to feel lived in.

I want a paint stained soul,

and all my clothes to wear the sickness of being.

I want my aura to scream human condition,

I want every breath I ever take to smell like

backstitching with dental floss,

and I wanna take up space

In the way watercolor stains do—

in the most inconvenient places.

I wanna make my way into every space

Where I am unwanted,

and taunt the small and the broken with the

performative art piece that is my existence.

I want to be massacred on stage.

Call me Brutus, anyway

Make my bones taxidermy,

Use my skull to hold paint water

and give me new life,

I rip apart cardboard in rage,

and use permanent markers

To give myself any permanent reason to stay alive.

I carve my own body out of found things,

and my own purpose out of magazine scraps.

My mind is fabric and I catch fire easily,

but only I know how to paint down the shapes

In my flame

that drive men to madness.

I am not creating,

I am creation.

I am the very process of being,

and in being so I am everything that falls apart.

I am decayed,

and therefore I am Life,

and therefore I am hated, because I hate myself

So deeply—

I never asked for myself and yet here I am—

Smelling of decay and paint thinner.

I surrealism myself to life every morning,

I Impressionism myself a coffin every evening

and when I care for someone deeply,

they taste absurdism in my teeth.

I am poison and I am a holy thing,

My hands— They feel loved,

They feel loved in.

And I just want to savor this,

before I am forced to wash the Life out of them

And have to go back to being some common thing.

Because a canvas without medium,

is just unused potential—

But medium, paint, marker, blood, ink—

that’s what gives its value,

The soul is captured in the weave

of the course fabrics.

And I just wanna cherish my soul—

Before I have to wash it off.

It’s Beautiful.

And in this second— just for a second— so am I.

[poemguy]

CW: Themes of depression and suicidal ideation

No Shame in Zoloft (Survival of the Weakest)

It gets bad, slowly–

An ache under the ribs, like a tsunami in my bones,

I breathe in my own drowning,

A mouthful of bile like warm, expired soup–

I am completely lost, Cast from Eden,

The tears come and finalize it, so alone–

creating a shipwreck of my own crowning

Descending down into myself,

confronting my soul, as it starts to bow–

I ignore it while not minding the cost

It gets worse, slowly–

The temptation of my own obituary,

staring back at me in the mirror,

“I look so much older than I am,”

My teeth and eyes, worn down but ordinary–

consumed and swallowed by terror, an animal in a trap,

I cannot escape the destiny of the sacrificial lamb

But it gets better, slowly–

I call my sister– Instead of a mortician,

never wanting my loved one’s tears,

She brings halos of sunshine in, mollifying my breaking

I hug her and think to myself,

“This is what being happy with surviving is.”

[poemguy]

This blog will attempt to update most Saturdays. (This first week is an exception to that rule.)

Most poems aren’t beta read. Feel free to correct my grammar. I may not respond. It depends.

He/they pronouns and experimenting with neo/xeno pronouns.

I have no idea how this site works. Do not expect quality.