Coffin Memories

Now I often think about it.
When the taste of coffee
splashes bitter sharp grains
in my mouth
(how words amputate
my desires once seen
in a glimpse of innocence).

There is no room for innocence
underneath the armor.
There is no room for belief
on a 8X10 mindset.

It starts to make sense why
I am drinking rusty water,
and how I write "poetry"
on toilet paper, and when
my skills became paralytic.

Now that I often think about it
I revolutionized my own vocabulary:
my favorite prefixes are -a and -an:
amoral, anesthetic, apolitical, asocial.

Now that the feeling is so knotty
I wish choking became hanging.
Now that God stole my tears
there is only penitence past the doors.



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