molly-gilkey
Well, I'm just a author. I'm currently writing a book trilogy, and to hopefully gain a following to help publish my crazy thoughts. / / Anyways, I love writing. I will post a poem a day, or a minimum of 5 a week. / I will mostly sick to dark gothic type poetry or niche but it all depends on my mood for the day.
there’s a vacancy in me, a moon crater, a cesspool, a grasshopper on its hind legs pleading to gods that don’t exist yet. i’ve always spelled love with bullet holes in between, his hands rummaging through my snow-caked lungs for heartstrings that vanish at the touch, my own emptiness an animal that gnaws me, a biteful here and a prickling crack in my being there. something wrong, something gnarly. a prayer with bent teeth and beer breath. a glimpse of a memory that might’ve been a dream or another world you existed in when your hands were smaller and the universe was an infinite beast, rattled by stars and ancient fires, matchlit mountains and roiling seas. have you ever felt like a graveyard in the blooming? all these tombstones littered across your body, each grave marked by your name, owls hooting behind the ribcage gates. in me there is a vacancy like this: the earth stemming from purified veins, droplets of blood capering up my skin like caterpillars, something half-eaten, half-felt, something that was perhaps, never whole. waterlogged limbs that only carry you as far as your next disaster. cheeks mottled with rain that does not burn. someone asking “hi, how are you?” and your answer is fine, always fine, do you know what it’s like to never feel anything other than fine? to hold hands with the dead and sing their souls to blissful sleep. maybe i would be a clichè, something out of a movie you’ve seen a hundred times before, a ghost with nothing to haunt, a girl who gets bitten by a monster only to become a monster, suicide in the city.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
She remembered a visit she had once made to some dark reflective cities-- the chilling wind, the overpopulated sidewalks crawling and overlooking or drowning in blind and the oblivious like the slowing hearts in the basements taking ****** screams out to the deaf ears, the raw noises, the dying streets.
She remembered the ****** slices, the dripping crimson, the unpleasant pain each day. She remembered the distressful dragging of the blades and the revolting scent of the bodies placed on the road. She remembered the screeching sounds and the heart-wrenching cries that drift hundreds of miles with no triumph but the disappointing disappearance of sound-- no pause in dolefulness, no thoughts, no life.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
They can see through the glass
Our lips are dripping blood
From telling all our lies
But people don’t understand,
Blood must flow for clarity
Before the water can become,
Clear.
I’m not sure what flows through my veins
Is it crimson?
When I crack open the glass
I don’t see color.
Only the stories our lies tell.
Wishing the red would dissolve in the water
But in the end,
We will all turn to ice.
Molly
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
It was one of those things past the human eye they keep in a jar before you.
In a tent close to your desires like a sideshow of your mind, on the outskirts until memory fails
of a little, drowsy town by the light of the moon. One of those pale things between the ugly and the beautiful, drifting in alcohol plasma drowning in confusion. Forever dreaming and circling fingers around your mind with its peeled dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night to sneak into your thoughts and only the crickets chirping its dead eyes fluttering,the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland being eaten alive by the pain. One of those things inside you and me in a big jar on a shelf hidden from you that makes your stomach drop in anticipation as it does when you see a preserved arm beyond, taunting, in a laboratory vat underneath your skin. Charlie stared back at it in spite the pain it causes, for a long time. Amid the blur.
Molly
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
My tears aren’t clear
Everything is rose
The thorns piercing my dripping eyes
The thick red running down my face
Seeping into my cracked lips
Metallic liquid gushes freely
The fine silver standing ***** inside my bleeding eyes.
Molly
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
Why waste your blood
On a silver blade
Why stay afflicted
On meaningless life
Why not slash vertically?
Molly
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Grasp everything positive
even if the flower is wilting
Hold on to your thoughts
even when you are alone in the forest
harbored by taller plants
grip tightly to your purpose
even if it’s blowing in the wind
Hold on to your breath
even when you wish to hold it
Clutch my mind
even after I have been swept away.
-Molly-
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC