A Live Poem

Vomit making vessel,
temple carved from screams,
Shaking hands,
Poetry stained pain—
Be beautiful.
You did nothing this week?
You survived.
And so if all your life is survival?
Then you will be like every
other
animal.
Surviving—
and beautiful.
Because you—
you, like everything—
Every thing—
are a product of the universe
Gazing back into itself.
Cry and scream and sleep and beg.
This is a church service.
The Old Gods never truly die.
The have made a home in you.

Bone breaker,
Violet-hued violence bringer,
The soft curve of your stomach
drives lesser men to monstrosity.
But it is not your fault
that they could not
see you
as human.

Writer. Word maker. Presser of flowers.
Do not Die.
It is not your time.
It is not your time.
You have so much left to make.
There is so much more of you
To be made.

Be messy.
Burn Rome to the ground
with the sheer absurdity
of yourself.

Get nothing done except
the songs you write to the sun.
Apollo will thank you with his love.
But remember—
You are not one of the Old Gods—
Your love is not up for transaction.

Bleed your pain into the mouths
of men
who tell you
Only that it will get worse.
For they know nothing of beautiful
Survival,
And only know the taste
of blood
when it means war.

Do not go to war.
It is not your time to Die.