Don’t act
Like you know
Those depths
Of raging nausea
Which embitter
My aching senses
And force my hand
Towards death

Wasting
The last of days
Through hours
Spent on counting
Long seconds
Between these minutes
To feel each pang
Of hurt

As bile
Toasts its glass
Raised
With stomachs churning
And delivers
That ugly message
Of deliverance
Meant to hurl

Ready
If I’ll ever be
For this exit
Not quite suited
To a legacy
Undigested
Of poetry
Left behind

Glad
I wasn’t a man
To appease these verbs
Who made me
By virtue
Of supposed “gayness”
That manifests
In my words

Not the kind
You’d ever use
But create by
Gorgeous sickness
And utilize
As that compass
To navigate
Seething pits

The sort which
Have you bleed
Just enough
For beauty waiting
Among trash
And hopeful rubbish
To burst
Inside your chest

Like pockets
Of noxious gas
And vomit
Set on spewing
What arrogance
Finds me queasy
From consuming
Pain so raw.

– J. Pigno