jason
I'm in warrior mode
having gone more than two months
without a day off
without reprieve.
Most weeks I only sleep six hours a night
and I trudge forward
with resolve sharper than I ever knew
prior to this two month deluge.
This is not a poem.
This is my awe on the page,
an ink bottle tipped over,
with its contents finding solace on the page.
At the end of the day
with an already full shame tank
I listen to the weathered words
of a divine inner hatred
for the freedom you never had
and are intent to deny me
as you remove my right
to celebrate myself
and discipline myself.
Cry for what you want
And it will come.
Grieving is the way out
and the way in.
Bureaucratic little bastards
teeth gnashing, gnawing into the air, latching onto anything that willy allow, even for the slightest amount of time, the opportunity to feast right through flesh till bones do crack and splinter,
revealing that secretive marrow I held so dear.
Before I knew it to be cancerous,
feeding them. Sustaining them.
Whether it metastasized because it sustained those greedy little gits, or those greedy little gits caused it to metastasize, no one will ever know.
All the same, cancer is cancer. And it must be purged from the soul to be purged from the body-
after all, they are attached, being one and the same in yin and yang.
Little bumble bees
Listening to the queen bee
fly into the night.
Involuntarily I've offered my skin to be your canvas.
Your brush strokes tickle, a combination of the cold pain and the bristles on my nakedness.
It is funny.
The more you paint over the blankness that is there,
The more I appear on the canvas I had planned to use, the blank fabric stretched tightly over a wooden frame.
I fill up the space, blending in with my background,
watching you bring me to life, I dance with colors, mixtures, shadow, and depth.
I am frozen in this canvas and alive at the same time.
Were it my own brush strokes that trapped me in and yet brought me out at the same time I would not mind.
Without your brushstrokes,
I know not what I am,
Nor where.
Our differences make us the same.
Our similarities make us different.
There it is,
written on the wall.
For you to see before your lids droop deep down
into the darkness you are scared to know.
Kiss it. It will kiss you back,
sweetly, smoothly,
This doesn't feel right this doesn't feel right this doesn't feel right.
Don't make love to one you don't love.
With burning passions, inner fire, and intense desire.
I lay my hands on your torso.
O, sweet dreams of your embrace surround me.
Your facelessness speaks to my craving
for the mistress I call Art.
No.
There was a time in my life before it happened.
Before the viciousness of a gang-initiation welcomed explosiveness into my life
I do not want to go back to that time before
and I do not want to move to a place where it is gone.
I want to be in a place where it is not frozen within me.
Where it is released
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writing since 2011 · 137 entries · 116 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Jason showed up.
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116days written
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the words Jason reaches for
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