When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

"17 bullets in his body"

I'll never forget
those words
the doctor had said
while my man was on his death bed

17 bullets
17.

And it was the 17th of March

On our 17th anniversary
And I heard those words
At 1:07 am

17 bullets
and we were both 17 when we first laid eyes on each other
that day when you came over to our house with my brother
and it was the 17th of March

17.

I'll often go on Facebook
to while away the time
my friends are there,
we have a laugh
share music, pics and "smiles"

but lately things are changing
there's trouble in the air
with ugly hearted bigots
posting hatred everywhere.

I will not hate my fellow man
how ever hard they try
I really couldn't give a ****
if the blushing bride's a guy!

I will not fear a Muslim,
nor any other creed
they're not all bad, they're not all good
They've done nothing to me

So a word to all you fascists
please take your evil deeds
and stick them where the sun don't shine
not on my newsfeed!