hard lava
I think I’m seeing ghosts again,
their shadows pooling in the corners of my mind,
whispering truths I don’t want to hear.
All alone again, I sit in the rot,
the smell of regrets and time wasted
curling around my senses like smoke.
Thoughts hammer away, relentless,
a jackhammer of despair digging deep.
"Better off dead," they murmur,
the voice of gunshots lingering
where silence should have been.
Why do they scream when they see me?
Do they see the cracks beneath my skin,
the way my fingers twitch
like they’re trying to erase the memories,
but only smudge them deeper?
I won’t die, not like that.
If I leave, it’ll be with art smeared across the walls,
a crimson ode to the chaos in my chest.
Van Gogh the living room,
fingers dripping with the poetry of pain,
painting a "Starry Night" no one can unsee.
Call it madness, call it art.
I’ve been twisted since words first formed in my throat,
since I stumbled through life,
always running, always chasing,
but never reaching.
I haunt my own memories,
a poltergeist in a house that doesn’t feel like home,
scratching at the walls,
trying to carve a name that won’t fade.
quick dome
grizzled acorn
sick osprey
rotund jasper