I wouldn't bleed myself
For anything that already exists.
I wouldn't martyr myself for
Not my country,
Not even my art,
Not even
That which we call
All of those things will eternally remain
But if you
Were to lead me to an
Abandoned wood…
Two cigarettes and a kiss later
I would take your knife and spill myself.
Not because I love you,
But because
Becoming an enigma
Is the greatest existential accomplishment
That any philosopher could ever fathom.
Existentialism in practice.
Existentialism on a manageable scale.
When my body is found,
There will be a self-signed note
Pinned to my forehead-
I don't want to be in the papers as a
Victim of suicide.
As an angst self-murderer.
I don't want to end up an
Arbitrary piece of history.
I know that
Any act of greatness that were to extend past you, and I,
Will be
I don't want to end up in a textbook.
I want to be a poem
That you will write.
A dime-store novel.
You and I will challenge the relationship between
existence and selflessness,
Sensitivity and selfishness,
Death and beauty,
Poetry and real life.
I would willingly martyr myself for
Philosophy that no one can grasp
Until it is witnessed.