I feel empty underneath you
Do you know you’re kissing a ghost?
My lips are barely moving,
Maybe a whisper at most.
I think you prefer the ghost
You’re thinking of one anyway
Easier to imagine,
if I have nothing to say.
My hair is too dark
Is that why your eyes keep closing?
She’s off living
As I lay decomposing.
And she’s still the ghost you prefer.
May 8, 2024
May 8, 2024 at 1:05 PM UTC
Driving manual
You let me shift the gears
The way I felt so important
you
Put your hat
On top of my head
The way I felt so wanted
Silent driving
And staring out the window
Listening to your ****** music
The way I felt so content
The lazy morning laying in your bed
Pretending to sleep so you don’t get up
So you don’t move the arms that were wrapped around me
or the head that was buried in my hair
The way I didn’t know I would miss it
driving home not talking
Holding, but not talking
Leaving us hours apart
The way I felt about everything we did
the way I couldn’t stop feeling about you
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 10:31 PM UTC
I’m going to
I Burn
Light
Her garden on
for
Fire
Make love to her
her
Flowers
They’ll burn for
flowers
Hours
I’m going to set myself on fire I’m going to
Burn.
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 5:53 PM UTC
I had a dream
Where someone died
I woke up in tears
That’s so ******* weird
I didn’t know I cared that much
About him
I didn’t know I could cry
Yet there I sat
With salt in my eyes
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 8:18 AM UTC
The Yellow Dress has been hung out to dry,
brown laundry twine muffle the neckline.
The black flats swung softly below,
In the distance the boy heard a white raven crow.
The Yellow Dress hangs and hangs, but the boys face must still be wet.
The boy is pretty and cold, despite his nervous sweat.
His dress soon grows bored and wonders what’s taking so long.
Time with the boy had never been less fun.
As the boy started dancing and swinging,
The dress cheered him on, but the rope ended up winning.
As he hung limp the dress grew lonely,
So it tried to smile at something friendly,
Pink fabric flowers wave hello to breeze,
But wind merely weeps and runs off to the trees.
The boy usually left the dress all alone,
Ever since his parents came home,
Until of course, today,
The dress wondered when the boy stopped being afraid.
Maybe he was done,
Done playing the game of hide, then run.
Though his parents seemed to enjoy it.
They were always laughing, especially when his skin split.
Now time has past, and they are both alone,
The boy and the dress longed for different types of home.
The dress is shivering and the boys skin is long past blue, taking over his rosy hue.
It struggles against the laundry line,
Certain it’ll get out this time.
The dress huffs and curses the body.
Why won’t it move? This stupid limp body.
The boy used to be fun and run around playing,
Now the only game he plays is called praying.
The dress looks up at the line more carefully.
How weird… it was never tied this forcefully.
The cord is twisted and oddly thick.
How come its wrapped around his neck?
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 2:31 PM UTC
The Beautiful Lie
Here I am, standing there.
Watching existence, without the weight I should bare.
I was spared from the ugly truth.
Torn from reality’s crooked noose.
He told me he did it,
He didn’t say why.
He told me he did it.
Then he said goodbye.
Out through the window, abandon the door.
Bait with something bitter, yet better, irresistible lure.
Leave behind, a ****** mess.
Leave behind, the lonely best.
He killed them he did,
I’ve heard it all.
He killed them he did,
Both short and tall.
Then when I crept, the racket was done,
He laughed and told me all for fun.
He murdered my brother and the rest in floor 19.
He murdered my brother, then ran off unseen.
He saved him for last, my 18 year brother,
Waited until after he shot my mother.
The thief spared me and I don’t know why.
The thief spared me, what a lie.
He told me he had done it all.
He told me in the late fall.
He beat the old lady, he stabbed the landlord,
He sliced the babysitter, the children so bored.
At least that’s what he told me, I know it’s not the truth.
At least that’s what he told me, the thief with one silver tooth,
I believed him, and I still do,
Only because without it, I might fall black and blue.
Off the roof of building number 3.
A bird is the best thing to be.
Forget about floor 19.
Forget about the things I should have seen.
Forget how it wasn’t his hands that killed my brother,
Forget how it wasn’t him who shot my mother.
Forget that it wasn’t him who wreaked havoc and left this world unseen.
Forget the truth and believe the lie, about the things that went on in floor 19.
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
I never allow myself to wipe the wet away from my eyes,
just because I refuse to believe that there are tears there to dry.
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 8:22 AM UTC
There used to be a bottle on the wall.
It was very green.
I'm sure it was the loneliest green bottle
that I had ever seen
It used to sit on the wall
all day and all night
And every day, when I looked out of the window,
it was always in my line of sight
Then one day, a cat came along.
Something was going to happen; I could tell
The cat then accidentally nudged it
and off the wall, it fell
When it had fallen off the wall
it had dropped with a very loud sound.
There were all these little pieces of the green bottle
all over the ground
Then the cat yelped
and I knew it had gotten hurt
I could quite obviously see its paws were caked in
blood and dirt
The bottle wasn't harmful in the beginning
it did not look the slightest bit treacherous
but after a nudge in the wrong direction
it became very dangerous
Now I look back at you smiling
next to me on the big armchair
Your fingers running through your soft locks of hair.
You remind me a lot
of that green bottle.
In the beginning, you were harmless
you were all sorts of fun.
Now you hurt me.
Could you tell me why
as I don't quite know what I've done
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
Rage makes me roar my loudest.
All around me demeaning chuckles.
So I walk off into the forest.
Then I return with ****** knuckles.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
The dead lie like Rome,
Like toppled sunshine in stone,
From a boy who had blown
Into the seashell of the Forum,
Heard back in restoning, the alley of home,
The narrow, basket-flowered angiportum…
But, lips too strong, let out unknown
The stone-witherings of Medusa
And the bone dust of empire.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC