Abuse
is ramming
down
my
throat,
choked scream
harmonic
dying
note-
I need
a
touch
a
hand
a way
to
stand up
once more
running:
what more
could
I do
to
myself,
no
more than
you
could do
to me
or maybe
I am wrong
just like
I
always
seem
to be.
So
longing
swearing
breaking,
tremble
with
each cut
I'm
making-
I will
not
become
the thing I hate.

How does
it feel
to
be
the dead
one
breathing?

Cold knife
the
essence
of my
breath,
sadistic soul
the
last
Saint left-
I've no
idea
just what
I'm
getting into
when
I take
your hand
do I:
Or
maybe
I care
like
you do;
not
at all.
Still
wishing
wanting
needing,
Slice
my wrists
don't
stop
the bleeding-
I will
not
become
the thing I fear.

How does
it feel
to
be
the sad
one
laughing?

Dead pulse
for
dead
mind
and soul,
who says
that I
must be
whole?-
you seek
a road
a
home
a
child
to deceive
like
every time
we meet:
am I
the
one you
want
to kill
again now,
so many times
I always
know
how. . .
but never
stop
it
all the
same.
Always
begging
taking
keeping,
still
you're
laughing
while I'm
weeping-
I will
not
become
the thing I
am. . .

How does
it feel
to
be
the one
who is loved. . .?
it doesn't
feel. . .
it
doesn't
feel
at
all.


~~(c)7/00 The Mad Poet (A.K. LaBelle)