I Don’t Want To Write


It’s not ink that spills in pages
But blood, my blood
Garnished from limbs
Splattered into words


Do you want to hear it?
How I chase after each hard-on,
Stick my dick into every guy
To fill what? A dark hole of passion
Implanted on my torso
From a fuck who never called back


The pastor damned faggots to hell
His words directed at me
Neither the masturbator, nor the drunk
Nor the disbeliever will be held
By the delicate hands of Christ


Neither will the delicate hands of
My mother, brother, father
Or of a lover
The only hands I feel are my own
That bruise after every poem
Bleed after each climax


Do you love hearing that?
Depression, fear molded into one
Boy framed into a body of man
And is my art of gods or of damnation
Or of methamphetamine factories?
Does my pain make you sigh
Make you cry, get your dick high?


I don’t want to write
I make a whore out of myself
Wrapping out the pain from my liver
Blood-stained tissue pulled out of me
Like endless confetti
You can pull too, until I am no more
No organ no bone no fat
Only shredded skin and a vague memory


I don’t want to write                  (It’s scary)
You scare me
I scare me
Words scare me
Existence damns me
You damn me
I damn me
For loving writing – the grand pain
That vomits lust and fear
That will never end
Until I end.


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