Dark poems nominations

 
This May or the last several minutes
I believe when I set foot in a place invited by happenstance and synchronicity
met a manic writer
who wrote much better shit than my dribble.
 
I am grateful to her for  
now I had an outlet for
my diagnosis, my strong emotions - new discoveries.
 
I am grateful for meeting and making some friends.
 
I’ve lost some too.
 
I don’t know if it is my failure to read the abstract painted throughout the world and the life,
the lives contained therein, or if it is my blind lust to help others at all costs
or my FUCKING demons who whisper sweet nothings to me daily
& try to get me to give in…
 
If I knew what ever gets me to
Fuck-Up my closest of friendships to a point
of no forgiveness,
well then I could stop these behaviors and change.
 
I think it is much too late for karmic clean-up as the rotted flesh of group opinion still lingers like an ooze from an advanced wound full of yellow puss of hate.
 
I have a theory
(yeah, I got a whole book of fucking theories)
 
that if I stop to think about the pros and cons of every single decision in my mental daily interactions then perhaps
I would not lose so many friends who I love and cherish
with a fierceness.
 
Hmmm, another theory:
why my real life family participated in the physical abuse and tortures upon me – because
 
I AM A MULTIPLE FUCK-UP WAITING TO HAPPEN.
 
I have stumbled upon a realization moment
and I didn’t even have to
light a candle and meditate.
 
Wow!

the battle rages on. tracers pierce the obsidian night, quick flashes
of death eating the air. the enemy’s thunderous guns drive us mad,
and still we advance. cowardly stars slowly fade from the sky.

the luck that has shielded me is savagely torn away, as a bullet rips
flesh above my hip, burning, just as the sacred side of Christ was
desecrated by a Roman spear. another round finds me, & another; I
stumble & drop to the mud. perhaps a dozen stars, bravely, still shine.

in my daze, I sense a comrade grab me & drag me back. like a broken
marionette, I am tossed into a jeep with other wounded, driven to a
makeshift field surgical unit, to the rear of our line.

dysphoria clouds me, ghostly memories rise like Lazarus. I see the
children of my village playing in the dirt road, mimicking soldiers,
sticks for weapons. I watch my mother weeping, as I march to battle.
and there is the oak tree, where I sheltered from the Spring rain with
an auburn-haired girl, maiden of the willows, who startled me with
kisses. all the admiring stars in the sky regaled us, whispering ‘this
is love, & it is good.’ for one moment I embrace the vision of her,
whose lips I will never taste again…

barely conscious, I am on a gurney in the open air, medical personnel
probing my flesh, chasing bits of metal, evacuating blood, suturing,
under a sweating, dimming sky. abruptly they cease, their barely heard
mumbles telling me their efforts are wasted.

the final star blinks out. the black sky descends. it covers me like a
shroud, & I sleep, in absolute peace

beyond all the calendared morrows.