And feel like men,
                                                                             Mapping out the visions
Acting as a kicking hallucinogen              Of imaginable futures                 
Within arm’s reach                                         Inside confined craniums
At the verge of possibility,                           Above exploding hearts  
Happiness is unattainable.                          And throbbing feet                                                                                Through alcoholic apologies

Just inject me with morphine,                    
So I can be high                                              Inventors do not receive
While I am low                                                Enough sunshine;
Flying under the radar.                                 They are not supposed to.
A smile cracking                                             In perfect paradise,
Across my blood-spattered cheeks,          I forget to breathe,
A temporary suicide                                      To live life on pause
Followed by resuscitation,                           When the beach spills out
My ghost awaits abduction                          A broken hourglass
Dancing with the flies                                   Which becomes quicksand
Over a pile of shit.                                           That proceeds to
                                                                              Engulf my existence
But sometimes                                                 I cannot escape   
The needle breaks                                           As much as I try,
Against my crocodile skin                            Like caught in a riptide 
                                                                              Where swimming
Your persuasion fools me                              Nowhere
Into believing emptiness                               Drowns you.
Pilots my being,
Nothingness disclosed                                   The art expressed
Once I am torn apart.                                      Is the artist repressed,
                                                                              Another weary overlooked creator
Self-mutilation for deep splinters              
Begging for forgiveness   
Poking me amid                                            Of sooner unexpected behavior
A high fever melting
The shallow soiled snow,                          I accept the neglect overtime;
I am a droplet that leaks                            Then again, it is better
Past the sealed faucet,                                If there is remembrance

A pill bug who
Crawls, cringes, curls up                             
Simply do me one favor:
Hiding from the pain                                   
Do not obliterate my work;
of tragic romance masochism,                  Let it mean something forever.

outtliving death disguised as
A giant dehydrating love.
                                                                         The kingdom gates are closed,
                                                                             And there is no place
Peel off my entire face flesh                        Left for me
To reveal the mortal                                       But the unknown
Anorexic potential,                                         I, anonymous
So I can look happy eternally.
                    Am familiar with
                                                                         By now.
Yet, even a bare skull
With a naked grin
Cannot fake the misery
That lies beneath.

A requisite to stumble around
With poisonous blood
To convey the clotted truth

Kevin Adam Flores Barbosa is an English graduate who has been writing poetry and short fiction since he existed. He has been published in The Rio Review, University of Texas at Rio Grande Valley’s Gallery 2016-2018 magazines, The Chachalaca Review, and a couple of zines. He is a bittersweet poet who has an Instagram and Tumblr.
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