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Would it be poetetic to take this blade across my wrist
The silver kissing at my arteries

Would it be romantic
To die because of love
Possessive hands choking me.

Would it be beautiful
To breath my last breath
Leaving behind all those who care.

Or would it be tragic to abondon this world before my time.
Mother and father crying over me.
She shed her scales by each drop of rain
her eyes; poison in blood
the desert her veins
as she travels across silk concrete
towards the edge of her mind
the bloom of yesterday billowing its monster
side glances perceive venom

Israel is tangled in her hair
she is drowning in harlots blood
frozen against an eclipse
continuing her journey curled up in chaos
each trail a fragment of forgotten memories

Delusions are alive in her

A perfect flaw of raven fields
razed with withered crops

The dream is curved around her tail
liquid and edged with bone roses

She peels from herself

Iridescent
Venomous
Bleeding

Watercolors evaporating from forked tongue
Canvassed

Painted to slither off the cliff
landing beside her arrow fangs
her brand new scales
melting

Like sugar inside my peppermint tea
~
:

The wounds are bigger now

Blood turning into ink

Dripping onto a blank page

I sit crying

:

Darkness stitches herself to me

Her sickness contagious

Blinding me from the light

And yet I see a glimmer . . .

:

Demons climb into my hair

Clawing at my clavicles

Snatching every bit of sanity

Tearing me apart

:

They stole my pens

Ripped my notebooks

Screamed and cursed at me

Told me I was hopeless

:

But somehow I am able to laugh

Though I write these words

With my ink blood

Dripping from its wounds

:

Staggering in pain

Yet satisfied, complete

My soul; untouched

Unbroken, but hurting still

:

The remains of my mind

Forming into poisonous butterflies

Flying off into a psychedelic world

. . . the one I created

:

Unsettled; though peaceful

This thing moves in me . . .

:

Impregnated by Anger

Pregnant with madness

Shall I abort this abomination?

Or let it live?

:

Shall I conceive to deceive?

How . . . how can I birth a monster

Who is the root of insanity?

:

But I did birth Madness

Didn’t I . . .?

:

Or maybe I had a miscarriage

And now here lies Madness

Dead in between the lines

Of this poem

:

Can you guess?

But wait . . .

Maybe you already know

:

Maybe you can even hear

My ink blood dripping its lullaby

On the edge of your mind

Maybe you are the one who is mad and not I

:

Maybe . . .

:

Although Madness could be alive now

Her essence

Flowing thru my veins

Writing this poem

For you

:
An old piece when I was in deep darkness. I will try not to dig up too much of my dark past. Hope you enjoyed otherwise.

— The End —