World Pin

life
feels like a thousand hands plucking
your skin out of your ears
the jarring noises of the living dead
walking dazed
under the wounds of the world
and the sun and dried aging
meeting points of time lined
little streets of churlish possession
under bombs and limbs
and desert hearts
and what does faith have to give
me?
what indeed does the disease of the mind
have, to call me names
and
labels
of selling and sold
and fleeting kisses in the rain
when I've drowned and died and
and seen everything
standing
in nothing but blood
and a scream