Your words are folded up into
Tiny
Novels,
As if they are meant for others.
Unfold them though.
After all, you are their great mother.

Sprinkle these shards you call words
Unto my skin,
Like a mother would.
Nurture me and feed me stories;
The ones full of glory.

Lock me up when I see
These stories being full of allegories.
"There is no moral in feeling condemned,"
You said.
"They keep away those horrid angels,
Said the talking head.

It's the truest form of truth,
Pure and worth more than gold.
These words that transform into stories,
Are full of meaning and glory,

and nothing more.

There's no God in these stories,
Nor life or death.
There's only everything worth saving,
After that, there's only the words
That must be bled out and said.

The flower doesn't ask to bloom;
Nor does it whisper,  "I will one day die. "
It's aware of its penultimate doom,
But yet, it lives; it's aware of its life.

Like the classics, they are survivors.

The Hemingways, with their red rage.
The Fitzgerald's, as innocent as lilacs.
Those Bukowskis; that smell of sage
Splattered all over their heart attacks.

Like the classics, they are survivors.

The touch of the Woolf's; bliss.
The smell of the Sexton's; pain
The look of the Plath's; abyss.
These flowers; victims of the honest brain

Like the classics, they are survivors.

Like the flower, they all had to bloom.
It was the start of their doom.
Those heavenly colors, like their words,
Are survivors, yet somehow, absurd.

Like the classics, they are survivors.

I am in debt to you all.
I write in your honor.
To continue this cycle of death;
Now there's your writer.

When you meet
The one
Made out of it;
The universes gift.

With
A mouth
That,

Once opened,
Illuminates your battered
Heart,
Stay.

Darling,
The one made out
Of star stuff:
I need your light.
I've been blind
For

Far too long.

Enough of the shame
Of my own shadow.
Engulf
Me
In your light.

In the same way
Those tired,
Beaten,
Battered men
That returned from

The mouth

Of Poseidon
Come home,

Kiss their wives,
And know that,
In that moment,

They need their lovers
For the darkest of nights;

I need your light.

Obliterate my body.
Absorb me tonight.
Darling,

I need your light.

Those blue pills have been given to me by those
Angels in stethoscopes.
The dying will stop, so I’m told.
Your soul will be able to hide now.
I smile at the thought of this blackness
Being ripped from my innards.
A hard night of drinking will
Do well enough, now.
I ***** out my soul.

Every few months I am your play thing, my angel,
My savior in your white coat.
Milligrams increase as I stare up at the hazel
Sky. I ***** out my soul once more.

I am your baby, now. I rely on you not for life,
But rather, not to die.
Cradle me, kiss me on the forehead,
Say it will all be alright.

Die, sweetie, die!
Die, your *******!
You venom, seeping through my veins,
Die and come back to life and Die.
This blackness; I need you.

My angel, with his shiny new armor,
Loves me with no remorse.
He’s told me as so.
Let’s put more heaven into you,
He says.

This is love.

You'd swear that I am
always being punched on the nose
from how much I cry.

My self is trapped within the wood chips
that creep within my lonely heart.
It's becomes a bird feeder; come take a sip.
You'll do it if you're smart.

Just like with all the others;
I have died for you.
These bags under my eyes are my lovers.
They are mementos of my own, personal, truth.

I've built my own prison and I've bought
all the goodies for it too. It's full of hyperbole,
for all the lovers that have been caught
in its deceptive web, as you will see.

I love you more than the Sun.
I'd burn a city down for you.
I'd **** for you.
You'll **** me too though.

**** Me.

Onto my flesh, under those wonderful
Green rivers, is your blood,
Slowly suffocating

In a body no longer yours.
That's your legacy.

Those pine tree hairs, no longer *****
At the thought of your

Name.
That's my remembrance of
You to me.
My goblin in the night.

My pact with you is broken.
I buried you six feet under,
Another six more, to
Be

Sure.
I buried your name here,
My dead rose.
I've stopped watering you long ago.

I suppose it's the day you told me
To take care.
Die, now.
Now die.

My tongue no longer enjoys your taste,
Bitter,
Like a pianist, with out his lover to
Play for;
I felt that alone.

Oh, but no more.

Die now, die.