Today is the day I determine how I plan to die:
I will lay in a field,
With flowers in my hair
And gold coins on my eyes.
He will stand over my corpse,
his hands flaying helplessly
to save my naked soul
(but he cannot breathe
Life into a body's that is
Already cold.)
I want children to pick out my teeth and
Then plant them in their backyards;
So when the luscious fruit
Is picked by their tender hands
Tears can fall for their dead muse
(making my insides taste even better)
They shall be blessed
With the gift of metaphors
And they shall be hated.
The ground shall attack them
As they speak of "anti-love"
Their feet will grow weary of
Constant thorns
And heavy thoughts
(They'll give up.)
My legacy will survive in
His hands.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
My insides were scraped,
Molded, and shaped
Into words on the pages,
And my eyes watched
In silent horror (silent pleasure)
As the fire devoured emotional
Responses, (hopes) to the
Fabrication of reality you made
Me wear.
Grey dreams, papery lies
That streaked the pages of my hands.
Burnt poetry is the best kind
(Burnt memories are the best kind)
The tapping at my door
Keeps waking me up
And it isn't a raven
Asking me about some
Eleanor.
No, it is the urn, full
Of ash and imaginings
It rattles with displeasure;
I shall let it go.
Heavy, but light in my arms,
Taking the cinders to the sea
(Finally, I'd let you free.)
Only to have oxygen transform
And disfigure ash into butterflies;
They attacked ruthlessly, at my face
With kisses that brought back memories.
I blew out my wish
"Let this be my last" And
Suddenly, there was nothing
Just the results of paper and
Calefaction.
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 4:25 PM UTC
On her face are the lines
The new and old
That he draws across
Hoping he'll make her
Breathe.
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC