a writer lays awake, long dead

i bleed my eyes out on this mattress

blinking to the dull hums of male voices 

i split a kon-peki blue over the molt of my fingertips and 

swallow the shards of the shattered bottle

a cyst sits under my skin and 

rolls my flesh between its teeth 

flicks stones at the muted fabric of a dying mind

i bleed my body out on this ceiling and wish the gods would die 

to a writer's pen 

mediocrity smashes my cranium in to eat but 

there is no brilliant mind, only a 

stuffed tragedy, a beheaded fairytale dripping at the edges of bloodshot eyes

there are too many mistakes to die over and

crying in shitty moonlight poetry

i swallow this like a dry pill and choke

and i hope it kills someone talented

i wonder if the gods would look human in their dying moments 

just to frame my seething inferiority, pretty pretty—  

i cut my screams from the throat of a gutted painter

crush it into crimson ink, hang my name as 

the dying writer tearing pretty words from their broken bones

—just to satisfy a burning desire of merely being enough

for just a second, only just a second before 'not anymore'

just to kill a deity once before it breaths again,

buried in the wombs of virginal maidens

unfair unfair, how gods are born instead of made—

but i take it with me and go

i take it with me and go