Elements and Breathing Habits

Oh Muse,

why so harsh and

swiftly away

again

as of late,

taking tea with bloodbath hands

and fake memories

implanted in the

dusty head of

suicide trees,

the winking moon,

poor Dante and his

fall of man,

and Jesus did weep,

in the end,

that was more

a beginning,

when you think about it.

I choked down tears,

talks with the

sandstorms
stirring outside my window frame,

drainpipes fucked up on toxins,

fornication governments
all of which lead
straight for the

dear wild wisdom oceans

that tossed and turned me

into my nightmare reveries
ever to awake my spirit with

gnashing lusty teeth
inside my own head,
following me to 

the star-lighted

sky

who groans for no man,

just fire-breathers

to mix with her

ferocious flames,

purge her icy waters,

be underneath her in the earth.

Fortune telling

came so natural to me,

like the urge

to ride your face,

it was instinct,

not something that

I even,

necessarily,

asked for,

ugh,

I hated my visions

most of the time,

damned me forever

to loneliness, and

spirits were the only

ones who seemed to care

anymore,

on this weary plane

of egos and

alcoholics,

cancer treatments,

and misery,

always seemed to find me,

on that yellow bricked

road

to nasty and

divinity.

And I tried so hard

to howl loud enough

so you could hear my thoughts,

staining the walls of your bedroom,

understand and move

with me,

my wasting away

into death thoughts

and love,

perhaps,

in the light,

that took me,

thank god,

away from here.