Please note, I was in the psyc ward with mania when I penciled this and wrote this poem. It still means something to me, but please interpret it as an art communication when I'm not doing well. I rarely create art any other time-- too depressed and/or unmotivated.
he climbs to the attic / he glides up the stairs / each step falling behind him
matches are in his trousers / dripping with fuel of past hurt / the chill cannot put it out
‘i peed in my bed / it smells so rotten / please help me be clean’
the smoke meets the small cradle / since combustion has begun / spraying water won’t stop it
the big boy meets his little / he is embracing his boy / while he shakes away others
‘i love all your sparks / ashes make me dry / we are dead and pale’
while he squats in their coffin / he drapes his love in corpses / the lid is closed to adults
the clean air becomes filthy / as he leaves the pure behind / his child will breathe through cotton
‘set fire to this place / drop your flames down here / hide your light in dark’
handsome boy clutches blankie / his other hand his cinders / it’s for his boyfriend alone
licking up his foot to chest / burning up the little friend / dripping down into his mouth
‘carve my dead body / drag your razor blade / toss my bandages’
he will capture his small haunt / he will give him what he asks / releasing the ghost from him
he slobbers at the toilet / pressed to his bloating belly / his mouth is closed and silent
‘one two three open / here’s my sweaty sock / lock the bolt my love’
bughouse poems and art 
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