On Division of Self:

the top of my head

and the bottom of my heart

and the tip of my tongue

and the skin of my teeth

and the pit of my stomach

and the flat of my hand

need to meet

they are strangers to each other

like old friends at a reunion

and they just don't know each other anymore

they've lost the way back home...

where life makes sense

and love is worth it

and priorities are fair

(that imaginary land that never was but's always there.)

the back of my throat

and the soul of my foot

and the

(stop it)

metaphors and similes and whatever fucking else

my mind puts into pretty words to help explain myself

are useless and degrading

and its just not fucking fair

that every cell of me is dying

but the ones that keep me beating

and breathing

and oozing

(or secreting.)

(cause with glucose crossing the BBB, i still have strength and life to speak)

physiology is unfair

(it all makes sense to Joe)

to allow living and breathing

when the part of me that is my "I"

is bleeding and unseeing.

(all I'm asking for is

(I wish I knew))

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Poem by me, circa 2007