Captivity Poems: Sick Fuck Up

I didn't eat normal food for five days with my eyes wide shut.

The lemon lime fish tacos and TV show detective sitcoms my roommates/complete strangers left me were over for five days expired, on the middle shelf of the fridge before they went,  SPLAT! SPLAT! against the back wall of the chrome kitchen garbage can; I have been living off loose chapskin that have been ripped off my lips hours at a time.

Raw: my lip sting, they have been flogged and carved up by a miniature man, and his family. Right hands and fingers formed a cat o' nine tails; the left hands are 20 inch Bowie knives.

Blood sprung out of a natural spring, and pooled in my mouth.

Each family member got a fancy wine glass out of the china-wear display, dipped it in the blood, the father raised his glass, "Success follows hard work. All of you will continue to benefit from your dedication to the cause. I love each and everyone of you. This winter, we shall prosper. Cheers," clinks, swallowed, and chugged the rest until they dropped, and stopped breathing.

Fuck! 

I tried to save them with my pinky by performing CPR, but crushed them like ants instead, legs and arms still twitching.. 

A flaky glob of fish, sun-dried tomatoes, onions, vegetable oil, red peppers, and lettuce wearing a coat of sriracha, hit the floor like a meteor forcing me to clean up my garbage.

Flat On My Back At 5am In My Aunt's Driveway Feeling The Pressure Of Gravity Exerted Equally On All Parts Of My Body

Sorry for being allergic to dogs/cats/tree nuts.

Sorry for being fuck up.

Sorry to my college professors who believed in me and gave me a BFA in Writing and Literature for wasting my potential, and settling for day to day $8.05 life in the deli.

Sorry to David Buckley for kneeing him in the ass in fourth grade because my friends and I thought it was funny.

Sorry to my family for being an embarrassment who many of whom think is mentally unstable.
(Probably right.)

Sorry for being an hour late after I called twenty minutes earlier, and said, "Be over in five."

Sorry for coughing and having an asthma attack after we kissed.

Sorry for being a drug addict.

Sorry to James for making a pizza which I ate one piece of, and threw up immediately upon consumption, at his expense.

Sorry for taking acid instead of calling you in the midst of one of the hardest moments in your life,

(On a social caste system scale I am lower than dog cum on the side of a dumpster.)

Sorry for being to big of a pussy to commit suicide.

Sorry for being lazy.

Sorry for saying shitty things that make the people who care about me feel bad.

Sorry to my aunt and uncle for having to put up with my daily temper tantrums due to misplaced keys/drugs/cell phone/ work clothes.

Sorry for blowing my savings.

Sorry for being dependent.

Sorry for being depressed.

Sorry for hurting you the most.

Sorry for being myself.

Sorry for hating myself.

Sorry for being untrustworthy.

Sorry for making the people around me unhappy with my unhappiness.

Perpetual frowns 24/7.

Sorry for wasting your time.

Sorry that you had to read this piece of shit excuse for literature/apology.

Being online for 17 years, reading and observing other people's blog posts, news articles, I realize that I am not great at anything and have nothing original to say.

Looking up at the clouds swirl above in the opaque morning sky,
politely asking them to put the full force of their weight on my face
to help me stop breathing.

Sorry.

My Mom Told Me To See A Therapist

Lately, I've been imaging a random stranger walking up behind me in a bathroom, smashing my skull open with a steel pipe, and finding a padlocked wooden treasure chest lodged in my brain.

The stranger picks the lock with a bent paper clip and bobby pin until it clicks open, revealing a naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair in all the right places. ALL the right places. Get me?

Okay.

So the naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair steps out of the box, fully grown, grabs a teal blue towel off the rack on the wall, and buries his face in the fibers as he carefully tiptoes over my decapitated body.

He drops the towel, runs his left hand through a brown clump of hair before saying to the stranger:

"Hey buddy, thanks for freeing me from that box. Really appreciated! Been in there for almost twenty five years now. In the fetal position. Living off the digested fast food nutrition," he points at my body with a pruned index finger,"this asshole ingested. Surprised I even look this good! Haha."

The stranger stares blankly into the bathroom tile, watching the streams of blood fill the crevices outlining the tiles.

"Thanks man! Like really. Now I can finally start my life, college, career, wife, kids, two story house, with an inground swimming pool and garden in the backyard, the works! The kind of happiness that happens on those family sitcoms people watch in their homes with their children on Thursday nights. You know, like The Office?"

The blood from my body has filled every crevice and has started to overflow onto the tile.

The naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair picks the towel off the ground, puts it over his head and starts moving it back and forth, while the stranger sighs, grips the pipe, and takes a couple of practice swings.

He's got time.

out of touch because i severed all my fingers, when my friends were out getting wasted.

Take a chef knife or scissors.

Take a finger.

Cut.

Watch a girl take her top off.

Watch her dance.

It's okay.

Watch her slide up and down a pole.

Watch her touch her the stubble on her pussy.

Don't touch.

Wet paint.

Put a severed finger in the waistband of her g-string.

She stops dancing.

Take another finger.

Touch yourself.

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Go home.

Masterbate 45 minutes later.

Kiss your daughter on the head after your done flushing the toliet.

Now it's time for bed.

Get your shit together.

Have to mow the lawn at 8am.

Goodnight! And God Bless!