I didn't write it for you

 
 
You hold vanity airtight in cynicist grip  
as if the universe owes you  
an explanation for existing.  
 
Outspoken; prespoken piss ink  
layered for the editers to finger unpasteurized.
 
I never needed you.  
 
I lusted for the anger  
burning in your apprehensive lyricism,  
deft fingers, and the fairytale
I wanted to null the operas in my head.  
I lead that symphony now  
while you still fuck the needle  
cradling a frightened child.  
 
I hope ---- is nestled in your breast bone  
like a horror novel  
written just a bit too clearly.  
 
I don't need you here.  
 
All kinetic concepts  
and licentious smiles  
and things I won't mention  
still strung taunt like ripped nylon thighs  
on the streets of Mardi Gras.
 
You don't reconcile for the martyrs anymore.
 
The faggots, artists, addicts, visionaries, dreamers, philosophers  
and all the other fixed faces  
that suffer throwing tortured bones  
into the sun like offerings  
for a tomorrow we haven't begun to earn.
 
One chapped roughly against our lips  
like a selfish trophy embellished  
for the clouds to judge.  
 
I bet I could watch dust  
committing sacrifice  
in the silence of your eyes.
Fearfully, counting your answers  
and mutilating them into shameless art  
as if it justifies anything.