With our extremities entwined
two pairs of digits, stroke in kind.
One pair, painted.
The other, dirt.
One of us delicate.
The other, dirt.

A soft and fragrant anticipation
succumbs to an accrid and earthy
magnetic like hold. . .
Hold. . .
Hold. . .
Thankyou Sweetheart,
you were great.
I'm going,
are you *******?

Poetry by Kaydee.

It's a risky idea
you should give it some thought.
The wheels are in motion
and all stock is bought.

I'm thinking so fast
and I know what comes next.
No longer enthused
'cause my hyper can't last.

Did you take all your tablets?
The one's that restrain you.
Taking off in your spaceship
that's called hyper mania.

Super-thusiastic poetry
by Kaydee.

What would I do without you.
You're always by my side.
Giving my life balance.
You open doors for me.
Point things out to me.
You're always right
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
and (then) left.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .

Kaydee

Tomorrow.
Wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be a better day.
A better morning.
Afternoon.
Evening.

Tomorrow.
Wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be a better day.
A better morning.
Afternoon.
Evening.

and repeat.

and repeat.

Under the birthstones
in the carcass yard
is where the flesh tombs lie.
Decomposing for three long years.
Eradicating memories,
dreams and fears.
Becoming next, the black gloop
treacle of putrification.
Now bones, just old bones
is the remain of what was once,
a spirit with a name.

Poetry by Kaydee.

Could I have your shoulder
when I need to cry
and not be worried
when I can't say why?

Would you offer your hand
when I am ill,
feel weak
and cannot stand?

Would you lend me your ear
when I am troubled,
worried and shaking
with fear?

Will you offer me your arm
when I'm upset
or shaken
and make me feel calm?

Would you ever suspect me
of collecting
body parts
and call the police?

Poetry by Kaydee.

The bones of the
not yet murdered,
hurriedly re-dressed
by the hands of the guilty.
Creating a cloak of invisibility
that no one can see.

Whispered words of
the guilty liars,
drowned in their own
breathy stench.
To conceal the truth
that no one can hear.

Words once tearfully written
still undiscovered.
(for time cannot heal)
that only I can feel.

The reaper knocks,
One, two, three
and I ask he call again.
Maybe tomorrow,
but I don't know why.

Poetry by Kaydee.