to the flames of the east.

I have been in love
in cluttering , fatal love
with a women
who had been burning
in her cradle.
I breath and stutter
for a woman
who has been deformed
who has grasped
ancient struggles
and she surrounds me
and floods me
and teases me
with bits
bits of end
and war
and fate
fatality
I love a women
who id beauty
and beauty unhindered
she is dry and warm and glory
and for as along as she has existed
she had been tragedy
middle east.
middle east.
my fair
stagger
of a lady
I clench you between my small arms
and I love you quietly
there isnt much I could do
with my wee
wee voice
that whispers verses
of hushed poetry.

poetry of an insignificant revolution.

crippled rural and inflamed is our home

and we gather conflicted

stressing and pumping threw it holiness

that in fact

is not

at all holy

we align

and bring smal bits of aesthetics

made of the collisions

of centuries

of quivering sorrow

here we are

ancient

and infants

and fluttering in fragility

there is nothing

not a massage nor a moral

that we set

in our gatherings and raising of flames

that are made to capture attention

merely we write on windowsills and side roads and all the small little places

in this town uninvaded by rot

that life is here

no matter anger and rage and ugly ugliness

no matter

the rot

and rot 

of misery

and unhindered lament.

life is here.

Hemingway bleeds.

"writing is easy enough, you just sit at a typewriter and bleed" Ernest Hemingway.
I am no Hemingway
and I hardly bleed
I have wounds
but they do not bleed
I am not articulate enough
to let my self cry
or bleed
or let loos
or clutter
or end
or fall
I am stale and stationary
and I have forgotten
the definition of sadness
and cold
I am eaten away by the molds of
a dull
dull
life.
no matter
that I am born
with the knowledge
that I will practically do nothing with it
knowing where I am and where I breath.
no matter
that I am born
with the most ancient wound
that is nothing short
of sheer end,
I do not bleed.

in my bathtub, past 3 am.

argumentatively,

constant bathing

is a sign

of depression.

when it is 

3 am

and once more I cannot sleep

when I have school

in a couple of hours

I could do nothing

but clutter in pretense

that I am not

just 

mere.

that I am not a child

who's existence

or non existence 

dose not displace

the particles 

of the world

who's poetry is not

limited 

and repetitive.

I sit 

in a flesh burning

bathtub,

afraid.

tomorrow

will repeat

yesterday.

I will walk

through the school gates

and exist,

if not less

exactly the same.