I know it makes you sob, but please try to understand.
We’re pulling dead bodies out of ditches again, we, being I,
you’re just watching again, you’re always just watching, again.
This road isn’t familiar, maybe it’s just the glare of the headlights
The street is a dance of white hot diamonds on my bare feet,
does the heat mean its summer again?
You’re waiting for me again, but you’re never waiting for me again
You’re pulse is keeping rhythm with my footsteps,
There are so many more bodies that are calling for me
But there you are again, speaking my name.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
It’s quite now
You’ve been gone for days
but I still have your emeralds
I watch over them like
a mother waiting for her eggs to hatch
The bathtub is filled with ice again
I know you wouldn’t be please
but they’re knocking again.
You left the door unlocked
on your way towards the sun
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 6:46 PM UTC
Can you stay there?
In the dark earth of my soul,
can you build roads under
my feet but still keep your anonymity?
Can you sleep underneath me but never rest?
Can you let my bricks settles themselves
but be the grout on my strength
but still let me keep my title?
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 6:46 PM UTC
Shoplifting tragedy is a fine art that I have perfected.
Dancing around to the tune of
Someone else’s funeral procession.
To the monkey without its mother, crying,
I wear its tears like a silk blouse,
Now, I have reasons, for being so lonely.
I am not so crazy after all.
Justifications are my diamonds,
Rings, bracelets, and earrings.
Now to a preacher reading Psalms,
Grabbing hold of my ears,
Directing them towards
The daughter, her father lost to cancer.
I now have a new winter coat, of the finest wool.
I was getting pretty cold with myself,
Frostbitten with my own thoughts.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 2:52 PM UTC
****** soothes the aching,
I learned that trick from you.
Don’t bother with the counting,
that’s all theatrics, what matters is the blow.
You play something loud enough; you screamed
you can’t hear the imperfections.
Throwing my Plath books out the window
you murmured,
Talking about death means you aren’t ready.
Your silver has turned my fingers green,
for the last time. Until the next time.
You bruised my lips with a kiss
Now it will hurt every time you try to forget me.
Walking away, my hand caught in a doorjamb
you slammed it shut.
Broken fingers can’t hold on to anything,
you promised.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 2:50 PM UTC