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A Poem


and when did this bloom?

Poisonous bud of self-abhorrence.

With a grotesque and chimerical flourishing.

A sweet-nothing blown into your nose.

Delicate sustenance:

for the beautifully marred and blemished.

Nourish their destitute hearts and minds.

Whose drugs are these?

Possession doesn’t matter,

if you aren’t being detained.

A fervor consumed by MORE.

Blind authority and corrupt administration allowed 

one’s age of consent to be regulated

by the thirst for illicit activity.

Health and resolution fell to the wayside,

when abuse, misconduct, and self-desecration stood:


You should get that checked.

Pour forth,

the day’s worth of an empty stomach.

Blood vessels burst from misdeeds and malnutrition.

Last week’s bathwater tasted just as bad through the 


A passion for nothing:

Indifference on which organs were bubbling,

Which had already shut down.

The absence of coherence allowed you to indulge 

your crooked desires.

Palpitations were always the drums to which you 



is the exchange of overpayment

for drugs.


Not a desire in her mind.

Real life lost its appeal with the sole bill that 

demanded payment:

the lawless with a gun.

When did the hint of normality become so violent?

Dismal, disheartening,


Farewell means nothing,

You already said it.

To yourself.

Read next: Burning Seed
Maison Ray
Maison Ray

Denver-based writer. Previously in New York to attend Pratt Institute and develop his artistry. With a self-described “violently pensive exploration of the lucid,” Maison tries to invoke an ethereal relation to the world through his work.

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