The diary of a god’s failure

lips break like
broken lines except
there’s still an ellipsis:
a beating heart; one dot after another,
and zigzags
on that groaning ecg.

i don’t know why
don’t understand how
a heart breaks itself, except
that i feel it all the time: that suffocating weight
that’s breaking the machine, connected to the fragile
part of me; it’s telling me,
it’s enough already,
your heartbeats’ beating me too hard
breaking us to a straight line.

a 180° line i wish to turn into the afterlife;
away from these lying doctors whispering to my patched up body,

it’s okay, keep breathing…. okay
keep living, yea:

how can one
b..breathe when the heart
has finally agreed to kill itself?!
how can you
t..tell me to grow old in a cage w..when i can release myself?!
is it love? selfishness?

one has to leave when
one has to when
the earth doesn’t remember you but is ready to welcome you back
despite your epic failure, your disobedience to the doctors, the
resonance of when God told the first humans,
you must return to this dust;

because a god
never dies.

The Taste of Rebellion

kill me
like you would’ve killed yourself.

you’re killing me
like you’re killing yourself.

you’ve killed me
like you killed yourself.

i am me.
i am you.
we’re an infinite reflection
of a boy’s decrescendo psyche.

Plastic Surgery

by ©ad_poet.

escapees move like the steam from a saturday night’s barbeque dinner. there’s me &
there’s wine – a little darker than my blood,
pouring into wine glasses, & mine’s

from a stitched wound, you smell something different; hear something
different: an old cloth ripping, tired of new patches [with worn out sutures].
stitches here. stitches there. like the zebra crossing (white & black burns
on me). i made a reputation from it,

i’m quite the archer y’know: bend those lines into a bow;
face its eyes to the sky & its heart below, to the earth –
’cause deep down in my heart, i’m set for home.

just a little more pretend,
play the mannequin lady,
tip toes – let people watch me.
then i place a grin above my chin, holding my gaze at the doctors i repeat,

“i’m okay, it doesn’t hurt at all…”

i’ve gotten too used to the theatre.
too acquainted, i guess.