this brand of evil can't be taught

 you have to be raised by my mother"

stolen from itstacotuesday-bitch at reddit

but paraphrased, lightly changed like

stars through a gravity lens.

it's twelve pm on a holiday

the beach is blinding white 

match head sand but under the umbrella

by the water

it's cool enough. slight breeze coming

off the waves which lull like mowers 

on a field of hay. salt mingles with low tide

tastes like fish and suntan oil

of course there's people this isn't

the beaches of englewood or even ft de soto

no place to smoke in peace. cancel culture all around.

gulls and toddlers are high notes against 

background mood synth 

a horsehead nebula aria into 

all this empty space 

held in the pit of my stomach.

cuz i can't go i'm' writing this

from all the other times someone 

was with me there and i can't handle

the crowds now or the important, impotent

demands of living. i think i'm depressed

because i feel i'm in a prison i haven't made yet

every chance i've had to walk away, i don't.

and when i finally do it's always too late.

every fucking time. a suicide of personality

is every bit a death as physcically.

i killed the poet because

well, why, jack? the pointlessness of the writing?

the way it didn't seem to help my everyday waking 

body roll thru this same panopticon ? 

why jesus why does everything have to be sacrifice?

trying to be a little selfsih here. a little help here.

a little moira rose. 

probably sommething to do with not smoking

in the house, though i still smoke in the bathroom

because otherwise i don't feel like i can shit

and it's profanely amusing that for writing

the process is similar. that's why that one open

mic host called my writing mental masturbation

and i'm sure you'd agree. but this isn't meant for you

it's meant for me. if you don't like it why open my 

bathroom door?  i don't go to open mics much

anymore. because that host told the truth for me

which otherwise was hidden from myself.

they didn't love the words, it was my voice

my body and my hair. always perfectly

unintended. innocently i could read anything

first time through with conviction

as if twere mine. a talent unused because

i wanted to read my pomes. splayed

unshaven, but shapely

modulated choreography of sound.

at least that's what i thought.

now i see others dancing that way

and it makes me cringe in retrospect

yet 

isn't that what poets have always done?

and singers who loose their voice

were do we go?

i think this one

needs to hit the water