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Chacun voit midi à sa porte

To each, his own.

A poem without a name or a heart

It’s been a long time, a long ride.
How many times have I come here and given up by the second line?
Not this time. No. Third line, some progress at least.

No fancy wording,
No goddamn structure.
Screw that. You’re reading me?

I’d be ludicrous to believe pretty words can cover up for my lack of everything creativity
I’m tired.
That’s all, that’s it.

There is no poetic way to deliver any of it anymore.
The beauty in melancholy has faded away.
That ship has sailed sinked.

It all becomes hopeless when you realize “it” won’t go away.
“It” will linger there in your chest and eat you from the inside.
No blue shade in the world can make this feel pretty.

No more, no.
All these years,
A self-repeating cycle of shit.

And there is no good way to end it.
So I will just leave you.
Bye.

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A college essay preparation draft

“Hey, everyone! Welcome to class. At the beginning of the year, we’ll work on getting at least one good, polished admissions essay under our belts. The genre here is personal narrative writing, and we’ll be using the Common App prompts. Your first draft is due Wednesday evening.”

Sem título.png

(in)sanity

A
short
painful
& dissociative
monologue co-written by xanax, vodka and marijuana.

Throat is dry as the Sahara yet through the tiniest drop of water I drown. Mind is loud but isn’t clear. Unutterable matters. Acknowledging all them arteries and veins, we reconcile the vulnerability of our flesh. We’ve been numbing down our systems, we’ve been laughing sadness and singing the silence. Usurper dread, pilfer what’s left already.

[indefinite pause to stare at a mosquito]

Enough sophistry for today,
A girl trying to battle insomnia xx

From the roots to the twig

Took me a few years
Thinking it all and not doing enough
Labeled myself a coward

Took me an afternoon
Not thinking enough and doing it all
Surely I ain’t no coward

On an early morning
Sedated and drowsy
Free from what frustration brings

Sank in the bed
Consumed in momentary comfort
A deserved break from the misery

Somehow it isn’t good enough
Sometimes not bad enough
While my throat remains numb

I’ll keep on biting the shit sandwich

(Unfinished)

Omegle Jesus

Two lines cross the same path
One looking ahead, one turning back
Along the way I lie on my bed
A sleepy song bird now rest in my head
She showed me hope which no one could find
With three little hours out of her time
A color painted sky with grey clouds she shows
Maybe after the rain we may just find hope
I’ve smiled and yawn as she waltz right on
Wondering where this angel came from

— Greg Stumbo A.K.A Jesus

Thorn

Bear with me?

Life got its ways
to kill and make disappear
Stuck to the same old pace
Bound with unsatisfying tears
Twisted inside out,
Veins hanging loose.
A recap dream in a chimera
Bringing you wrong clues
Quit covering up the bruise
And hiding behind all abuse
Digest the end. And all…
Won’t wait,
Won’t bother, belated brother,
to change but recall
Infinite repetition
Infinite patterns
Infinite same old pace
of my finite heart
that unwillingly shatters.

Die with me.

Madness

I’m restless overthinking,
Over-drinking,
Possibly sinking,
Diving into this abomination
This stupidity

Of unwanted commotion,
Inevitable motion
Corroding with rust,
Moving my wheels,
Teasing my temper,
Testing my patience

I hate every little aspect
Of this unwanted oblivion,
Of this blatant unconscious effort
Beyond any self-destructive motive
To forcefully corrupt me

A fork to my soup,
A lost puzzle piece,
Soaked in unpredictability,
arrogance with pity
Self-righteous uncovered needy
Surprising me in varied turns
With a quick punch in the stomach

Addictive in its lows and highs
Turns that binds and breaks
And takes what make
Shake off the sane
It’s late, lame, unsafe

Enslaving madness

Luke

No lines
No exclamation points
No lies
No commas

Pain.

There is no Molly
Cocaine or Mary Jane

Pain.

Neither promising teas
Miracle pills and shame

Pain.

No lines
No interrogation points
No lies
No coma

Death

A Toast

I was born under the grave of a sinful father
He drank his bills and left me with a lonely mother
I have been the child that has seen it all
I have been the Lego lying in the dollhouse

I see the whore sleeping under dirty sheets
I see the love her lover never brings
I see the servant sweeping lies under the rug
I see the greed, the pride and almighty lust

It’s her to whom he raised a glass
It’s her who ignored his wounds and flesh
I have no fault, no guilt or obligations
My hands have not signed official papers

The era of Xanax, Scotch and cigarettes
My senses numb and lucidity intact
He drank his bills, I drink my blood
Cheers! 4 feet deep plastered in mud

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