I’ve made a life of nonsense,
internal bleeding, flesh fungi, and hypochondria;
all as grave as the comfort of my own poetry.
Words are my terminal condition.

I’m sick with lines without meaning,
afflicted with gibberish,
a stutterer speaking in tongues without religion.
There is little substance to this life.
Etiology without beginning,
belief without basis,
and faith in need of proof.

Physics says a bumblebee cannot fly.

And cancer eats the best of us.
HPV, microwaves, plastic, free radicals,
preservatives, nicotine,
and each breath we take.
To live invites death!

A bullet will kill you faster than writing,
but either bears death all the same.
One word after another,
one word until shame becomes sorrow,
one word until some feel they understand.

This is no cry for help,
nor plea for consideration,
but, rather, an explanation,
sentences saying,
“I would rather be invisible.”

My illness is absolute,
a disease incurable and miracle-proof.
Only a world without ink can stop me,
and then, only if there is no way to open a vein
and write.

christopher…. ‘07