Crawling through grass strewn with rocks and paper,

Littered wounds unknown to better poets.

These are my words.

I eat paper.

I ingest the wastelands of unfulfilled fantasies.

There is nothing here but the icy, gripping terrors of my heart.

Crawling through the wastelands…

My voice screams the orgasmic pleasure of one more breath.

I sit like a statue.

I see, but cannot interact.

My pride and self-love defeat me.

I crawl through glass.

Psychosis awaits at the oasis.

Lifeblood is my milk.

I suck from the breasts of the destitute.

Lifeless I continue to crawl.

“Me!” I cry, “me!”

This is my texture.

The taste of the wind is sour in my ears.

I can never be alone, I am trapped with my self.

Childlike eyes stare back from the puddle of urine at my feet.

Still I crawl through the wastelands.

Intimacy is a lie.

Friendship is a cloud.

The moon laughs and I cry.

Hope remains just another step away.

My hair bristles as the cold, numbing winds strike me.

I am naked in my mind.



There is little hope in the wastelands.

Deserts stretch for miles.

The mountains never grow closer.

This is for me…

A box tied with a red bow.

It contains my still pumping heart.

My fist is the size of my tolerance.

My hair is the color of autumn leaves.

Women walk past and gasp and my inadequacy.

There is no escape from myself.

Time passes into something else.

I am a small piece in a grand puzzle that makes no conceivable picture.

There is no plan.

There is no god.

There is only me,

And the wastelands…

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