The she-devil that rides my soul
Her putrid breath stinging my nostrils
Her decaying teeth gnawing my flesh
Her ragged nails clawing at my heart
ripping my life to shreds.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

In or out,
Don't step on the line.
I am not a door with broken hinges.

Throw me out
Or pull me in.
Time is at risk, don't keep me in between.

Black and white,
Like ink and paper.
The obvious things you have yet to discover.

What are you going to do —
now that I stare at you,
listening into the silence, howling
the absence of noise?
What are you going to do —
now that my heart and all the ounce
of reason that embraces it, drops
into the cold tile floor?
What are you going to do —
now when the distance that separates
my feet to your feet is a
giant stretch of air, and people,
and books and rubble and
impossibility
and dying chances?

Just a *******
You haven't cleaned of the floor yet
You order other people to do it
Cause you wouldn't want to get your hands *****

She doesn't recite poems in the darkish sunset

like golden corns dying to be reaped
she needs a hand to cut her through
reach to where a fleshless lust is still not ember.

Seasons come and fly away.

Her own poems withering
she pines for one simple nest
to rest.