Boys like me make art of our misery,
our fingers fiddling on the canvas of worries.
We box into silence, our body swallowing
every pinch of its breath. Sigh. This is me
exhaling the shards of fractured dreams.
In my mouth, a laughing jackal howls
fettered with the bars of sadness.
Doc, like a toddler with crayons,
I am painting the horror landscape
of my wounds and I do not paint well:
the sun morphing into a bleeding heart,
the sky becoming a blanket whetted with
brown gasoline. There's a song in my head,
and it's a melody of disasters and noise.
Say I, crash course of suffering toggling
through a first-hand tutoring in depression.
Say boy and by boy, I mean broken.
Say broken body, stay broken and if not
stay unbroken. I do not know the mend
for a scar or how seizures metamorphose
into scientific genius. My madness is
the noose over my head catting every rat
of my severed throat. Let's stay broken
and by broken, I mean boy and by boy I mean
human and by human, I mean broken god.