Creating, condemning,
piercing my skin with a
rough sketch, tattoo ink
and a clueless reminder
found within every pore.
Dug in,
with a wilted tear,
stain my skin with the pain
that is what it always was.
A source of power.
That’s the dedication,
simple passionate fortitude
and a litany of ghostly whispers.
I can’t take it anymore.
It hurts merely to speak,
blood rushes forth
every time I attempt to impress.
I can’t even trust my own thoughts.
They are the writers,
I merely the scribe.
No, I’ve lost my friends
to the romantic dogs
that I almost got to hang out with.
Almost. But,
I stopped just short of death.
At least I live without peace

Check out Roberto Bolano's- "The Romantic Dogs" for that reference in the last stanza

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Robert L. Martin J Ann Crowder Cory Garcia Imrogue C.R.Stanger Sarah Jane Danielsson
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