I’m not like you. I can’t turn anything into a poem,
then again, maybe I can,
but I’m not sure that it would end up
being any good at all.
Still, I write and write and write,
tall tales, bunny rails, fables and sad fairies,
and lest not forget the antichrist.
Mother Mary and her damned hand grenades,
they should kill themselves for altering your words.
Any poet, even a pretend one,
knows that you just don’t do that shit.
But hey, we still have plenty of words from you,
the bearer of truth.
You tamed tarantulas, and sat in cafes in Europe,
like a demonic ruler, and you did it to the end,
because you were the real deal, a real writer, a real killer,
a cannibal of the written word, you sprayed the mind
with linguistic machine guns.
A king, a martyr, but you would never wear that badge,
it wouldn’t feel right to you, it would disgrace your honor.
And ten thousand poets still cannot compare to you,
one closing line of yours is like a symphony of poems,
a barricade, an earthquake, shake, drink, shake, drink,
and an opening line,
always worth more than the novice might think.
You awe me, make me wish I had what you had,
but then again, not really,
it’s bad enough having what I have.
ive learnt what it felt like to not have an entire organ resting in my chest and ive learnt that things really do get better with time. ive learnt sadness and emptiness. youve taught me what comfort can come from a single voice if its the right one and how much safety a single hand in mine can emit.
i hope that ive left something with you. i know that you didnt learn what it is to be in love but i hope ive left you with something youll remember for longer than id ever hope for myself. and i hope that when you look back, it doesnt pain you to look at what ive left.
ive written about meeting him for a second time and where i thought we would stand and how i thought we would change and where i thought we would be in our lives. ive written about knowing each other only in passing and imagined learning about each other again.
its not like that though is it? i need to stop living in the future. i should have thought we are not together now. point blank. i should not expect nor dream or imagine but live in the present. because now we are us. then you were you and i was i. and before we were we.
i am okay with you being away now. and i was okay with not talking to you at all. but i am happy to be the person making you happy whether its miles or minutes away.
the space between us has changed us both. we went from the same page to very different books. even reading at different speeds, we have found that the spaces between words and lines and before paragraphs are universally the same size and that is where we stand for now.
i will gladly listen to your voice through all the in betweens.
In a trance, slashing throats. I'm in a killer mood someone's going to pay for this. All this betray and backstabbing. Pleasure by seeing other people suffering. Stressed out, messed up, fucked up. Killing every living thing as I walk by. Tonight you're all going to pay. Tonight is the end. Suffer!
Its a killer.
Like anger to a bee.
Like Hope in the eyes of a decided fate.
Like Music to my ears, we fade slowly together. Our feet move in step time sync.
Its a beauty; like the swan.
A flap of the wings in the water light.
A twist of the neck; a break of your arm.
It's a killer, with the name of Love.
slip my hands around your throat
slip my blade though your vein,
Throw the first punch
you're already dead
why not die twice?
Theres already blood on my hands.
Guilty pleasures of the deviant mind
scratches down the spine,
Bite marks along your side,
Love bites across your collar bones.
my little monster,
Make a sound
leave your moans down the hallway.
Latex gloves against the skin,
Making his incision
victims lie screaming
eyes wide open
he looks down
for he found his little monster,
she held the gun in her hand,
a killer in the making.
This is my first poem - thus the length. Still an amateur. :)