Martyrs with megaphones

Take the ground or the stars
and bend them till they become
a metaphor for
whatever base thought
you inflict on them next.Blank pages are made to expand infinitely
or contract into a noose
around your neck.

Painted nails are made to
hammer into flesh till
you have finished putting
yourself on a cross.

The pen in your hand
is the double edged sword
plunged again and again into your sides
till you are satisfied.

Martyrs with megaphones,
we have become:

Pointing to the battered hearts
we tacked on our shoulders
because the world has stopped its revolving…
around us.


Lying awake

counting stars

I’m starting to think there’s darkness in all of us.

Before I thought

we were inherently light

that the darkness is what we avoid

but here in this nothingness

where my only light is stars now falling

I feel it again –

unsure…of what I’ve been told.

Everything has changed.

Suspicions are reborn.

The oracle speaks.

Then the oracle is silent.

And what are we left with?

Fewer stars

and greater darkness,

more from within than without.

White Noise

White Noise

feel it

cutting across, leaving

red lines behind.

Counting them all one more time

I find I am just another cracked barricade

with the rust bleeding through-

the best of fault lines,

but no one else was at fault this time.

She tempted me with White Noise

made from overlapping thoughts

and unclear voices.

Why must I always be at war with myself?

My ears bleed from the sound

yet I break in it’s absence:

I, myself, am a contradiction


one could be driven sane from all the nothing


i gave it its own form of life


I sharpened her knives


I held on to the White Noise


I forget I once craved the silence I leave behind.