Strife

For all my writing wherever I use the words "Teacher", "Mentor", "Preacher", "Guide" 

are synonyms for my 

"Dada"

A battered guy. Strife.

My life

is a continuous

apology.

It's okay,

you'll never do it again.

But you will - none

of us can deny our humanity.

Mortality. We die -

our bodies blend into

the flame of the

Earth that created us.

Don't bury me,

when I go - I long to

be an eternal fire.

Don't mind the bruises

on my arms  - on my ribs -

better than cuts- no?

I put them there. Yes -

I can actually -

- really hit that hard.

Ask my knuckles - or

my teacher.

On a preacher -

a bruise is just a

multicolored coat.

You'll know

how that shadow

crawls within my blood - begging

for a way to stay inside

out...out...out...

GET OUT.

I Loathe you - you

who makes me doubt

my conviction - you

who stares at me with

a bleak, knowing stare - you

who laughs at me stoically -you

who laughs when I tear...

apart...

at...

my...

s..e..a...m..s.. - you

sorry - sorry -you who

forces me to my knees -

swollen with years of wounded

flesh - scored and scarred

black and blue

and You.

This time was the last - I

promise I won't last

another day - Enough.

The end of meditation - the

dawn of tears and shame -

and the Glass bowls

send metallic

--stat-c-

--

----

and- I wish I had myself

to dull the pain

but my

room was turned to ashes

and my

skin has turned to blisters

oh - how I wish

that this bruising - contusing

could be my shelter -

my cloak of invisibility

that I so long - so long -

to find...

And the stars shine

too brightly

for the City to feel okay.

Discomfort rains upon us

in the acid drops

of shame.

Night is where I travel

to the lands

where magic wakes.