Burning Inside

i used to write at least one poem a month, since i was 11. this is the first one i've written in over a year


always
an angel, snowflake paper cut into the shapes of death
beautiful form for a morbid thing
stillness hasn’t found me for years
the grind the wake the drudge
freedoms are expensive
value = numbers
with the wanting on the one side and the willing on the other
and we keep wanting and they keep willing
“freedom”
numbers = value
mean something, when projecting outward
time just wiled, wiled further
just to sleep icomfortably
while wild, disappearing further which truly willed is that which wins my heart
trapped in images and photographs and technology
moves further and further from me

the beating pounding grinding of drums or keyboards or fists
waves are all that matters, as long as the waves pass thru me
pound me
and lay me to waste
that's the sensation i seek
I cut we punch I prick we snort we bleed I hospitalize us both, again and again
we fight and we fuck and we fuck hard we work to keep death from ourselves, from each other
to keep passion alive to keep fire and yes, we hurt we ignite we cum. Hard. 
but the congruity of sex and death
is one too primal to evade

and we have assumed the Mr. and Mrs. burden
of keeping things from burning, 
the tithe the tax = the forfeit of what burns inside us
kush, plush, icomfort, the world tells us
are worth the price of our absolute souls
and we pay it
and we die inside
and taxes and insurance invade the sacred space of our dreams

and so the cycle I vowed never fall victim to

devours
me.