i am going to write poetry.

no one wants to witness it.

i've decided, yes i have. i am going to ki)l myself. why? because i need a hug. but none -one will give me thereof. i don't know anybody. thus this is my epitath to this world. bye bye!

幸せになれるかな。
幸せって感じ、何年ぶりだろうか。
希望をもう失ったんだろうな。
失ったら取り戻せる？僕の希望を？

なけりゃ、希望なしで生きられるのだろうか。

月明かりの腕の中に
踊れば踊るほど若くなるって
どっから聞いたことがある。

そうなら月が太陽より優しいな。

beggars guarding the gates of heaven,
give holy water to their faux flowers.
a path splits sevenfold,
the middlemost of its children razed and barren,
but is the only correct path.

unmarked graves laden not with pink petals, but neatly wrapped candies.
a coin split into two halves found inside a jacket pocket, with no knowledge of how it came to be there.

looking for your name in the corner of every daily herald,
and paying for meaningless tattoos on a whim, instead of getting the tar stains removed from my teeth,
because you always said you liked the taste of cigarettes on me.

summer, and the time capsule i could never find,
are buried somewhere, maybe close in proximity,
but i feel i'd sooner drag the canal that hides the bike i drove into it,
than dig another hundred holes in vain.

for some reason the town seems as though it's alive tonight, as if it were actually breathing,
you opened the irrigation canals to your heart and though i tried to walk along the banks thereof,
i lost my way, leaving me to drift at something akin to the edge of a space occupied by accumulated trauma,
and though i could tell from seeing alone,
your face was not yours.

i wanted you to say
"this is enough,"
or perhaps
"there was nothing,"
but your words were poorly rendered composite photographs, the intent behind them as unclear as what they actually were,
"trading vegetables for fleshlights."

truthfully, deceiving others is the worst,
but hypocrite i am to think so,
playing with floating dinosaur fossils in the bathtub,
having stolen them from the museum,
and having picnics at a graveyard,
insufflating heroin off of a cracked phone screen.

煙草一本の端、
灰でできている蛇のよう。

数え切れない後悔、理解されない言い訳。

あの泥塗れな部屋の壁に書いてあったセリフ、
「綺麗にする方法が無かろう」
二人笑い合い、
部屋の外にある世界が焦れったいので、
引きこもっていた私たちは
ふざけ、何でもないようなことばっかりやり、
楽な日々過ごした。

無意味な生活なのになぜか無意義ではなかった。

そう、今よりもあの頃、
遥かに意義があったと思う。

it is now time to stand up and arise,
all the broken memories of sleep.
your coquettish nonchalance,
leaves me bewildered as i awake once more from the thrall of past time,
staining my conscious with guilt of days i cannot once more return to,
staring into the night, to find no breathing bodies beside mine,
finding no comfort in the rhythm of breathing of neither sleeping lover nor comrade,
and the ineradicable sense of forlornity, from both the world and myself, leaves me catatonic, unable to find purpose in uttering the words i wish to speak,
under that bridge, where we all once stayed,
but only i remain, convalescing in a makeshift cot under the highway that used to be yours.
and it still is, though you will never return, i'm afraid.

Last night, tiny raccoons flooded my bed and bit me all over. Bit me? Perhaps it's more aptly put that they kissed me. It was still cold, but they were there, comforting me.

Syringes, haloperidol, blood pressure alarms, screaming.

I'm here again, in the ward.

I'm always here.

I remember the first time I came here, and afterwards writing "a part of me will always stay in that place." I've lost so many pieces now that I cannot count, nor am I certain I've any left to lose; And every time I return here, I search for those missing pieces desperately, but can never seem to find even a scant trace of them.

Ward nightmares are intolerable. It's my last night here, yet I feel as though I've still a dime left to serve on my sentence.

A nurse asked me what was wrong as I stared past the wall infront of me. I quipped "I suppose 'fear' of hospitals isn't diagnosable criteria in the DSM-V." She didn't laugh, and recited some canned, uninteresting phrase. Rest isn't worth writing.

(Apologies for my prolonged absence; as you can see, I was confined to my old stomping grounds once again..)

i wish i could tell you the answers you seek, of life and love and more, but i lack them myself
impeccably accurate songs and their spawn play inside my head as my eyes are fixed against the wall
i watch the dance of phantom spider legs
it brings me great mirth to say
"oh, what wonderful and natural movements their legs have!!"
all i can understand are the things before me
none of that which is beyond or perhaps inside me
and i am so very sorry for that.

a drowning flightless bird requires wings of water!
the strands of hair binding me to my bedframe are before my eyes transmuted into semi-permeable and translucent embers

and though i wanted to save the spiders, i keep seeing them whenever i close my eyes, imposing, battle-ready

in the calm of the storm, a voice i have not one memory of ever having heard before whispers my name

and she tells me, sharply and sweetly

"write it down!"

and at once i am filled with agony. i writhe and sob and scream foreign curses into a pillow before i can do no more than ask, nay, beg, for her to tell me the answer

"what do you want me to write?"

my own pretension tells me that i am sad i cannot know the beautiful truths she wishes me to put to words, but somehow, i know this is a lie.

i know that all i wish is that i could ever capture the fleeting iridescence of a voice so maiden, by any means..

undulating countenance, and yet again oblivion
when was it that our words became so mature?
subtle voice, subtle tension, the subtlety of how the very tips of your lips quiver

we descend from this bizarre world

nothing more to do or say, with no end, and the strangeness of that dream in which i continue to flip between the same pages
and the synapses of my frontal lobe begin their dance

that comforting rhythm will play no longer
worthless music, and worthless fashion

unfamiliar women seeking esoteric sensations

our tympanic membranes softly molested by scissors
and in that moment where our bodies were captured,
our very beings leave the room to which we were once confined

and as if our treasure-boxes were turned over and emptied,
no longer do we seek to escape from singing our songs that nobody else could hear

but, you already knew of my cowardice,
better than anyone i had ever known, or anyone i could ever know

our inevitable suicides that we were so ready to flee,
the willingness of our self-corruption in the pursuit thereof, the midnight sound of trains passing

and how we both laughed at all their voluptuous fashions, so far removed from our own

does the howling wind make it easy to see? the effort in which it is taking me to make but a single step?
and rather than save the world, we but bided the time until it split open before us,
and we soon followed.

deluded into the belief that perhaps the act of drowning itself would be our salvation,
until we could do not more than drown.

and the sound of fireworks in summer, how voices from all extant directions could be heard

how many times is it now?
that incessant beat, cacophony of melody
so obscene and lewd, how it slovenly flows and mixes

and girls of the city, forced to carry weapons
know not but fight or flight
humanity

gasping at the mere sight of the moon
feeling the teeth in my mouth which do not quite align

counting the days before another birthday

how many years has it been, or perhaps will it be?
and laughing, for without the microphone they are too weak to sing

from the heart