I’ve Tasted Galaxies…

I’ve tasted galaxies of life

And death

And sorrows past feeling.

Of joy without limit

And the doubting of self.

 

I’ve drunk rivers of peace

And oceans of boundless wonder.

 

I’ve breathed in clouds of self-pity

And enjoyed the smells of meadows

Filled with unending mystery.

 

But I’m not you.

I will never be like you.

 

And even when our souls do

Touch.

I feel more distant when we part

Than before we met.

 

But you feel fulfilled,

Enlightened even.

Like I’m just another self-help book

On your shelf of past experiences.

Like I’m a pass or fail college course

You can take in eight weeks

And forget about in three.

 

So I cover my scars with a cloak of shame

As they spread down my twisted back.

And I hide my broken tears

In the lyrics I sing to the world.

 

You sing along,

Calling my suffering, “art” and saying,

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

“I wish I could write like that.”

 

“It makes me want to cry.”

 

If you knew what it cost,

To create the art you marvel at,

You’d draw your eyes anywhere else.

 

The beauty you see

Is the mask worn by the fallen angel of who I am.

 

If you could write like I write,

You’d cry tears

You could never take back.

 

I wish you never have to cry the tears

I’ve cried.

 

And I’d cry them again

If it meant saving you

From it all.

 

But even then, inside of me,

I feel the rusted inner-turmoil of a Saint who killed his god.

Who can’t get over the death,

Cause it was a senseless pleasure murder

Disguised as a mercy killing.

 

All else died on that day,

The day his god died.

And I can taste,

The ever-running-tears from the Saint’s face,

As I hold it next to mine,

And I wish he could forget

When his god died.

 

But then,

I wish you suffered

Like I did-

 

Honestly,

I wish you suffered worse than I did.

 

Because I’m tired.

I’m so tired.

Cause every bed is a bed of thin needles.

So I stand and bite down on my hand

So the blood distracts me from my failing heart.

But when I grow tired of even that,

And the blood dries,

I’m left with a swollen, teeth-marked palm

And a heart struggling to even gasp.

Then I remember

your worth,

And take back the tar-smeared words I never said to you,

And put out the livid torch with my fingers.

Because I love-

I love you more,

Than I could ever love myself.

Binge-Watching You

I’ve tried binge-watching you,

But the script is inconsistent.

Something about the characters

Is forced.

Each episode is too long,

Overly dramatic.

You think you’re a comedy;

You’re horror.

The production values are stellar,

But they’re wasted on you.

At 155 episodes and 7 seasons,

You should have ended after the first arc.

Your ratings are high.

So what?

Enjoy the attention.

I’m not coming back.