Keep poetry
In the clouds above your head
Write poetry
Across the world to make peoples
Think that you are a poet
Love poetry
When u are having good habits
Or compassion
Express poetry
About your feelings happening now
Show poetry
What u are able to do with it
Telling others that
                           POETRY
                                 IS
                       EVERYTHING
  But keeping poetry is what we do today.

                         By K-mari ©2016

Prostitutes walk the street
And clash with white birds in tropical flight
Does this lend a purity to their gutter blood?
Or are they saints in corrupt and glamorous disguises?
The wind must speak their true names
Velvet panthers in the moist heat
Heavy curtain of ***
Falls upon the town in a warm wave
Surfers slowly lay their heads back
And are baptized by their girlfriends in the ocean

A book of poems
from a dead poet
living words
that keep on living
remembering a life
that has a ghost of a chance
at redemption
but every word redeems
a little something
of the soul that produced it
and in turn
redeems mine
in this life
where there's no certainty
of a next.

There's a beautiful gun in my hand.
Flawless.
                     The nightshift sun gleams off the barrel like a swan on a lake
     At home against the humid sweaty dark pressing against everything yet awesomely singular

     The clock stopped a long time ago and gunshots took over in place of the ticks and tocks…

     (I'm chewing on something soft)

                        … and I never noticed.

It seemed natural.
Every bullet chambered was just another hour passing

       And though it feels like forever I know its been half a day
      

        Blood laces the treads of my shoes
     Hugging the rubber and drawing patterns that I'm less aware of than I am of...

     (What is this? It's good.)

... myself

         Everyone I know is sitting in a pile.
        No more alive than the gun itself.
Still they talk. Memories are shared and advice is given. I don't care to know if its real.

        Everyone talks. It makes sense.
   Even the dead.
  
           The ceiling fan noisily labors diligently if not futilely against the unspeakable heat. It's the only sound I can be sure of. The motion helps.

     Nothing else is moving except...

    
(Chewchewchewithinkicanithinkican)
    
        ...My jaw. Steadily gnashing through…

     (Everyone talks)

            My tongue. I don't care about the blood at my feet or the fact that its coming from my mouth.

      *What worries me is that now everyone is staring at me and I dont have any gun at all

I am coerced into loathsome desperation
Unable to elicit a feeling of existence
All because my dreams violently clash with reality

I cannot prevail
I will not survive
I am weak

Failing to hunt down a sufficient supply of motivation
Buried beneath the world of paperbacks
Scrambling to bump into an emotion that will jump start my heart

An adrenaline ****** suffering withdrawal
Tormenting this flaccid ***** in my chest
Please, someone tackle me into relapse

Every attempt to ascend from darkness
Annihilated
With each crash and burn
Extracts the impossible truth

I cannot feel
I do not care
I am dead

Where is the spark that I used to lust for?
Am I Blind or Broken?!

I need to feel
I need to want
I need to prosper

Taunting a pair of keen eyes to electrify my neurons
Demanding a bitten lip to punch a hole in my gut
Slamming bodies against bodies into doorways

Grabbing confidently
Kissing forcefully
Unbuttoning frantically

But...

I can't
Feel
Anything

Love and Lust are one in the same
I can't coddle one without the other