This old body
Treats me rough
For the fact
I have abused it

From running low
On answers
To pursue
What fuel sustains

Existence hardly fit
For the mind
Which questions
Gimmicks

Like love
Or having children
As keeping score
Of life –

Things
I can’t believe
Are claims
Of righteous addicts

Accepting drugs
Called limits
Inside
These boring dreams

With pain
Admitting death
No matter
Of such causes

Trusting
Mortal judgement
More than
Reason should,

Where God
Decides each fate
Though days
Are still determined

By accidents
Thought suggested
In the tragedies
Of our choice.

Years
Not ours to win
But times
Intent on losing

Whatever hope
We muster
From the touch
Of passing hands,

Unlike
How I fight
This instinct
To seek feelings

And long for
Warmth so basic
Between arms
Of another girl –

Letting go
Of needs
I learned
Are undeserving

By words
Which come so natural
That I easily
Fall apart,

Rejecting
Food and faith
Family
And my future

Embracing
Bloody phrases
Torn from
Open wounds.

– J. Pigno