My Only Anger Problem Is Existence

My mother spat me into the world at breakneck speed
Launched into the sky, my head hit the stars
I came crashing back down in a ball of burning ice
Left a hole bigger then the planet's bleeding cunt
And God watches all of this with crooked, devil eyes
Jacking off to the downtrodden faces of those like me
And then releasing on those who have it even worse
Yet He is worshiped by many in the church of Stockholm Syndrome
Like an imprisoned group of siblings raped by their father
Too terrified of consequence to be free of guilt
I break the shackles every time a memory goes by
Be it lovers and friends who abandoned truth in a ditch
Or a trillion deaths of a society that rips itself apart
But there is no catharsis in the eyes of awareness
Just regret that the universe will remain stagnant
And that I am as worthless as the Higher Power

The Art Of Self Degradation

I am a maggot reflected in diamonds
My flesh slowly eaten by rotted bodies
Products of me, the boy with a closet graveyard
Reeking of ghost skin and suicide sweat
Existence put into question by a winged youth
When I disappear in his sniper sights
Sometimes I wonder If I even have a heart
Maybe the butterflies ate it years ago
And I'm kept alive by the tunnel's dim light
That's burning out for my own sake
So I don't have to see the crawling apocalypse

Lost Touch

I cannot relate to my fellow man anymore
The soil they walk on has more in common with me
(Stagnancy molded by foot prints and afterthoughts)
They're too busy worshiping invisible sociopaths
Too caught up in the heroism of poverty genocide
I prefer the poetry of a crimson-stained wrist
Over the delicacy of a three course meal of pills
It will put this garbage heap deep into the ground
To actually be stepped on instead of just feeling that way

Suicide Notes For Dummies

Hey Fuckers,

You're probably surprised at this gruesome mess before you. Never would have crossed your mind that it would come to this, did it? Now that I got that last bit of sarcasm out of my system, hi! How are you? As you can see, I'm not doing too well. I'm dead! Why did I do it you're asking? Well, that's a funny story (but not really).

You see, I've always felt alone. Even surrounded by close friends. It must be how Justin Bieber feels when he's not around prepubescent twinks. Speaking of him/her, why is it that people like it have so much money when people with actual talent and good qualities clutch pennies like a hypochondriac trying to keep a cold? Seriously, I've spent most of my life being terrified of dying. Which makes this whole situation ironic...maybe. I was never clear on what true irony is.

You're probably getting bored reading this. I was pretty bored writing it. So, here is where I give away my possessions. Or else I would if I had anything worth giving away. Someone might want an Xbox 360 with barely working controllers, an 8 year old PC, and a few pennies. But deciding who would get what would take too much effort and fuck that. So you can all bicker and fight for them. Kind of like what you did when I was alive.

Well I feel as if I've said enough here. That and I can't think of anything else that's remotely interesting to say. It was nice knowing you (okay, I liked earlier when I said that was my last bit of sarcasm). Have a nice life. I hope it eats you alive like it did trying to gnaw through my fat ass.

Fuck you,
Bobby

P.S. Sorry about the messy corpse.
P.P.S. On second thought, no. I'm not.

A Personal Choice

If I were to give myself to the steel
You probably wouldn't notice at all
If you did, it would just be an afterthought
A stuck thorn you use to gain sympathy
Then promptly pull out when satisfied
My depression is like the vine it came from
It grows until it strangles the child watering it
Then hangs his body high where no one can see
Except for the dying angels and vultures

Worst Poem Ever

Skin caked in Hell’s ceramic

And I do not give a damn

Impressions are for majorities

I’m a rusted needle in a landfill

An eclipse no one sees

Motivation is overrated

The crowd chants “Go!”

The mirror yells “Stop!”

Chainsmoking Alcoholic Sociopath

I feel like a cartoon boy

Lungs filled with rat poison

Enough to drown cognizance

Middle finger sprouted proudly

Aimed directly at the Earth’s orbit

I hope the peasants see it well

As they contort in conflagration

That erupts from my tear ducts

Every time the sun dares to shine

I imagine my face on every one

And what we look like inside

Splattered across the walls

Pac Man's Many Mood Disorders

Years of trepidation reduced to a couple files

Swallow pills to subdue starving poltergeists

So futile to devour what will only return

But it's better than gnawing into myself

Even Manic-Depressives Fall In Love

I remember going into her room and seeing pot leaf posters adorning the walls and Modest Mouse was playing on the radio as she took me into her arms planting a kiss on my lips telling me that I'll never frown again and I took a few hits from a bowl before burying my head in her heart listening to her hum the sound of rain and peaches and everything at that moment was perfect but when I opened my eyes she was gone.

The Art Of Beating A Dead Horse

Strewn about a rusted bucket
The grinder's teeth are a distant memory
Fading from life.
I'm so used to cinder blocks
And atomic bombs strapped to my back
That the ocean floor is now my lover.
My deep blue everything.
She injects disease into my skin
When suicide notes get too boring.
Another night snorting ashes of dead poets
Has diluted my blood to the point of enigma.
They'll never identify me among the waste
This gutted city screams with every gust
They carry the torment to daycare centers
And animal shelters for the sick
The mind is a labyrinth of numbers
I find myself counting cliffs like black sheep
Under the overpass and over the fence
Childhood wonders as if it's normal
I've satisfied the bloodthirsty onlookers
Now staring at my reflection in the sun

Self-Help In A Baggie (poem)

Bless you
Lord
I am me
Free
No nerves
Severed soul
Heart held hostage

Smoke engulfs
Highest percentile
A choked out
Gag reflex
Nothingness is pink
Bluebird bliss

We scraped it off
Night-life tumors
Brain tissue bred
The neoplasia orgy
Breezed away with rust

Bless me
Lord
I am me

Soil kisses the sky

Note From My Future Self

I hope by some unexplainable miracle that you get this and read it but I don't have high hopes. When you live in a gutter, the only elevated things are your mind from years of narcotics. I would simply tell you to give up on that stupid writer dream, throw a tarp over your mental scars, get a job, fall in with the plastic parade, conform, and plaster fake smiles on every wall. But I know you're too stubborn for that. So hear goes nothing: First, trust no one who uses the word “brother” as a term of endearment. They'll only use the blood to suffocate you. There will be pairs of beautiful eyes inviting you into forever. Don't follow. It's just where sanctuary and kindness go to die. Family ties may be strong but don't rely on them to hold you together. You may ask “what can?” but I honestly don't know out of artificial means. Don't let other's venom poison you. The only antidotes are apathy or inflated arrogance. Avoid parties. They're only filled with countless people you'll never relate to and the mornings after just paint you to look like a stunted clown. Kill your emotions and drag the corpse down High Street to show them all they'll never win. Oh, and for God's sake, don't listen to any notes claiming to be from the future!

The Brittle Dandelion's Last Vision Before Getting Trampled Underfoot

Fuck you all! I'm taking my cannonball and going to the deep end. You'll never stop me. The crows encircle a new moon and pieces of me are in each of their stomachs. Reality cracks to reveal two entities laughed out of Heaven, scarred and burned with stunted thoughts. Lord have mercy on the corner man playing marbles with his own bone marrow and the child who embraces nihilism. The bottle is pointless. The heart is pointless. The cross is pointless. Mr. Denton has broken his glasses on the front line of a personal apocalypse. I can't read the words on these walls with my cerebellum hogging the spotlight. Persistence is futile.

Dark Comedy

Wrap your spine around me. Squeeze tight so puss blasts through the pores. Take some pictures and make a collage entitled: “Society's Downfall” Please don't mind the mess. I've been cleaning it up for decades. The filth simply falls from my tongue and fingertips. In fact, this yellow and black mess is the most beautiful thing I've seen in a while. It'll be at home here if I don't scare it off first. Don't bother hiding that culpatory glance. You have the eyes of my mother, the lips of an ex. There's nothing that can please you here and I can't buy your respect. I can't even afford it for myself. Someday the aluminum floor beneath my toes will swallow me whole like a steer eating shit. They'll bury me in a tuxedo of rags and torn jeans if I don't beat them to it.

Euthanize!

Exhausted all resources
Now a wasteland of flesh
The mind is a chronic illness
Vomit stains on self-image
A cancer growth on sanity
And me, the walking infection
Trying cures of razors and pills
Daily therapy with a noose
Like trying to kill God
Suicide is not a physical thing
It always happens within
Long before the deed takes place
I've been dead for a decade now

Autumn Rose

Depression hovers above my skull like a black helicopter following my every move. I'm an alien on my own planet, out of place and just flat-out weird. A misplaced step can cripple my bones and one person's rejection can set me on fire. Flammable flesh afloat in a creek of gasoline polluted with their words (like matches). They'll sometimes sit next to my bed and grasp my hardened hand, asking how I feel. I tell them I'm a rose wilting away in a grave of autumn's leaves.

One second is a euphoric field. The next is an apocalyptic warzone. There's a blond girl twirling in the grass while bullets rain like acid. I'd grasp her hand but I'd just get caught in the crossfire.