Poem of Several Secrets

In 2013, my oldest brother died from shrapnel wounds sheared through his natural being, fish fillet of a meat of chest.                    
The air was light to me in Arkansas until I passed on my first day of college to attend a sudden wake. Though, in heavy condensation, Paktia was blown,            
ringing. Just one bomb and unprickled ears by the reception that saw no kill,                  
only bled from the unknown.                
They returned in a week, in coffins and dark bloated bodies.            
     
I did not know him well beyond ten fingers of memories.      
He was my dad's son, and our family was forked three ways.      
                   
My eyes        
stared through flowing liquid film        
until crisp mountain moor.        
Like being a five-year old fighting with my dad to stay longer when Mom is pulling me away for another time    
to be his son.              
Family is the Reaper's cropping ground.                    
And my grandmother died, another orchard willed to place.                    
No one could have my tears, no more. No funerals, no wanting them here.                    
And my grandfather could tell the emptiness behind the mouth of my greetings.        
Family only dies. The time till then is the semantics of a practiced eulogy.                    
                   
Friends were vipers that guarded the heart possessive of their punishment.                    
                   
I looked to the sky, and a gnat fiddled around my lid. I rubbed it out.    
     
Absent minded voyager to the running-lates until the body's fat evaporates with the dew and spurs one hallucination of my emaciated devil.                   
                   
And so the mind cracked to fill its subfloor,                    
and I was diagnosed, diagnosed, frozen over by the freshening of the rain in the water, and medicated for the apathy in my morning breath.                    
                   
The loneliness I feared and the women that could make me        
with them, on a glue on the back of a heel,              
and alone notwithstanding.                   
                   
2015, I set to work.                  
In work I slowed until I chose to slow to death                    
and kill the man; I was to never meet the staling chips                    
of my own spiriting away                    
with stressing soul.                    
                   
So I made a knot and looped my neck                    
before a pill side-effect had made it thicker.                    
                   
But you can't think when you are become dead.            
So you have to bid conscience farewell.                    
                   
And someone gets your farewell message and takes you before you're done.                    
2015 was the year of my bad.                    
                   
I saw no one enter and no one go. I stayed close to mattress floor to feel the flames of Hell on my frostbite.      
I went to therapy and scored weeks of hospitalization  
upon visiting the mental ward five times.             
                
Everyone who had been my burden were now the blue.                    
Wading in some ocean current.                    
Clinically, many things.                    
Realistically, emotionally unstable. Practically, a consumer of five psychotropics                    
because what you think of my                
smile is a skill I trained in moon,        
gestated by a scream        
(I receive disability checks and buy trinkets),                  
surrounded by cold fronts of dark and the deep cover of my convictions                    
of a poor self-concept.                    
                   
Would you think less of me therefore?              
               
Am I not still mostly alive            
and returning from what God named a walk through the Wilderness?          
I even out at least half the machismo suspended, from the seeing of another, in the hue of your iris.