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599 · Sep 2015
A poem to myself
This suicide taste funny,
with its imprint eternally
stamped
in my head.
It has the taste of an end,
my end,
and end filled with stars.

It taste like a badly cut movie,
with missing scenes.
The best ones thrown away.
Those were your best traits.
Action.

It breathes in the night sky.
I swear it's real.

This suicide mails those stamp-less letters,
postmarked to your younger self.
Where did I fail me?
It must have been those times I wasn't brave enough,
or it wasn't enough.
The pendulum of restlessness.

It must have been after the divorce I never understood.
That was and end to an endless war.
Good men died that day.

Those years of ripe maturity,
with tiny fragments still stuck to my heart.
behold the man you
see today.

It was all make believe, or clever guessing,
or a game of tag with no friends,
which makes no sense.
I could not be brave then too.

This suicide is now my confidant.  
It's been with me all these years.
Every Winter: here.
Every Autumn: Here.
Every Spring: here.
Every summer: here.
It's been with me through
the oceans I've cared so little about.
Through the scenes of beauty I could not
understand.
Through everything that could not fit inside my head.
Suicide, you *******, I'm through.
this death isn't funny anymore.

*I've changed my mind.
593 · Sep 2015
Walk of the heart
Today my heart broke.
The pieces are everywhere.
In the trees,
The sky,

On the tip
Of your tongue.

August is the time for
Those walks in the park,

Like we used to have.

My heart lays
On the park benches
Where we almost kissed;

Before you left.

My heart slipped out of
My throat
And onto the pavement.
It’s in pieces.

Oh, pretend that you
Care.
My love suffers from malnutrition.
My skinny soul can hold
The tears no more
From lack of
A dam
And a ****.

Still,
I lived in that hurt;
The hurt that belongs to August.
There’s beauty in that.
I felt these words bouncing
Inside My skull; I laughed.
The tips were razorblades.
This is my burning soul.

I felt these words come out
Of me.
They are dancing on the floor.
This is my blooming heart.

I felt your lips on mine, and I
Sighed.
I knew June wouldn't let me
Keep this.
It would leave, like you.

I felt these words bouncing
Inside my skull.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap,
Tap, tap. Tap.
They're nothing.
They're everything.
They are names, faces, and senses.

I felt these words bouncing
Inside my skull.

I know now what they mean.
583 · Mar 2015
The Cupboard
I am put away in the brown cupboard,
Like a brave Greek soldier.
Those battles with love and
Longing: I'm there.
This constant stillness though;
This is a death.
I wait with my martyred eyes
Clutching at my leaders tiny pinky.
I'll never let go.
I am yours.
Till the death of me.

I have sawdust in my
Pockets.
That is enough for this
Bewildered soldier.

What is now and what was are
Irreconcilable to me now.
I am your brave Greek soldier.
Play with my when you need.
Kiss me when you're lonely.
**** me when the moon disappears
From your Vantage point.

Over time though, my chiseled Greek
Body will rust.
It to will become black
And then,
Only then,
Will you realize those brave grunts
A brave soldier has mastery of weren't cries of bravery, but of black Pain.

"This hurts" I'll say.
"I thought you loved me" you'll reply.
My queen, my leaders, my killer.

These scars are your scars.
This blood is your land.
Conquer everything in sight,
Except my heart.
That died a long time ago
In that old brown cupboard of yours.
572 · Feb 2015
The Doctor
Under the light between heaven and
my morbid body;
it's there.
The Doctor forgot the anesthesia.
The succession of my repression;
there is no one better.
He let me feel every inch of
the blade as he tried to perform
a miracle.

Truths are told for entertainment.

He cut me deep, deep, deep...
A single tear shoots out of my left eye;
I can't ever rest.

The virus is part of me now.
Oh how I pray for the times I knew
everything and nothing;
all at once.
I miss seeing everything in black and white.
It is all to vivid now.
I can't help but tremble thinking of those
times now buried in afternoon backyards.

The Doctor can see this, and so, so much more.
He finally understands now.
the operation never stood a chance in hell.
The anesthesia would have been a waste of time,
I suppose.

I wake up and feel nothing;
this time by choice.
I throw coins into that old fountain,
bronze over gold they say.
I wake up and feel it all;
this time by choice.*

I now sob with innocence as my backdrop.
It is always black and white.
The Doctor said this might happen;
everything and nothing equal suicide.
566 · May 2016
Laying
We think the right choice of words,
Written in the right order,
The right way,
Makes us God.
565 · May 2016
Your pain through it
I've felt your pain
Through the truth of your bones.
The truth is though
You're not to blame.

Your black mass is a heavy burden.
It must be religion telling you
The devil is in you.
Impossible.
The devil is this world.
This beautiful place that

We

Ruined.
Every day has a pain attached to it.

Monday=Liza
Tuesday=Marlene
Wednesday=Jackie
Thursday=Jessic­a
Friday=Forget them all
Saturday=It's all over now, drink some more.
Sunday=  It didn't work

All the names become days.
All the days become names.
540 · Jul 2014
I am not/I am
I am not the self described squabbles in my head.
I am not the sorrowful truths left unsaid.
I am not a fetching dandelion, unable to run.
I am not all the inflections at the end of your tongue.
I am not your precious suicide notes.
I am not secure in your idea of hope.

I am, however, worthy of this life.
If I thought any other way, I will only deny, deny, deny.

I am denial.
I am pompous.
I am worthy.
I am Light.
539 · Sep 2014
Before I kill myself
This is the only way I know
how to express my ice cold
sadness.
This is a world
which enjoys stepping
on angels and uplifting
devils.

I am tired.
This was never a poem.

Before I **** myself.
I'm sorry to those
heroes of mine.

Angels are real.
524 · May 2016
Silence
The silence in the things
Left unsaid
Is a blanket of darkness.

It is covered in all those
Words stuck in your throat.
They were sentenced to life
In a rusting cell.

To die.
524 · Mar 2015
I better
I better remember your kiss
Than the taste itself.
Perhaps it was purple velvet:
It was a death worth dying for.
I better feel your hands that
Must have just returned from a trip
To the north pole:
It was bright red.
I better smell the sulfur from
My wounded heart.
You've must have just returned
From those pits.

None of this is fair though.
I made you, without permission,
My warrior with Greek blood.
You were my Achilles.
This way and that.
You were all and null.

I better write you a midnight sonnet.
It will survive where our love didn't;
With honesty.
523 · May 2015
haiku
If anything, we
Are the words that we never
Pull out of our souls.
523 · Jun 2014
wake up call at 2am
Those moments that I wait for;
I always hide in between binders.
Rusted pages telling me sad stories;
Please leave me on a shelf
(That way I can matter to someone)
Just let time pass.
Bend my pages so that,
when you're ready,
you can start off where you finished,
like you have, before.

Your busy hands caress my brown skin,
please read me again and again and again.
Write notes on me,
(It shows you cared once before.)
In the long ago,
when miracles did what they do;
save me.
520 · May 2015
blood orange
The horizon bleeds blood orange
And I can't help by smile.

We are made of the same materials.

Tell me sun, do you see our suffering and feel confusion that,
Even after you appear out
Of you slumber and give us light,
We still cry?
The star of our stars.
You're as needy as I.
With your yellow tongue
Sticking out and bringing tears out of my cavernous, hollow heart. That is where they rest.
Bump, bump.
Bump, bump.

My body is made out of the same materials as you, sun.
We are the same.
We are the same.

You light up our world
While I light up mine.

Remember, just like you sun,
I will only shine for so long.
Like you, I need to disappear,
If only for a time.
With your neat, permanent, burning skin, you vanish for the night.
I, too, vanish in the blackness
Of the night.

I imagine that is when you
Mostly do everything, but write.
I'll keep you alive with words.
You keep me alive with light.

Deal?
509 · Jul 2014
I am here, but only tonight
Play with my brittle spine on this
June and sultry
night.
Ruin me and ******* hate for you.
The rapture is coming, but only tonight.
Cross your eyes and see yourself from yourself.
Run away child! Whisper in deaths rustic ear:
I am here. I am here. I am here.
Freet of the all black piano keys. Disallusion
has run rampant tonight.
Look at the half bleeding moon.
Oh how it sends shivers down my weak spine.
The fields are full of grace on this red and black night.
Chances mingle best with lust. One without the other is
me without you.
I blame you not for how I am now.
I was like this long before the moon shone a light
and peasants knew what real plight was like.
You were my rapture, and it came at night.
Whisper into deaths rustic ear:
I am ready to die tonight,
but only under the moonlight.
Only tonight.
Forced words are poison for my whimsical, pulsating heart.
I'm sitting on a rickety chair, hoping for a tap on the shoulder
from God.
It will never come.
Leaves dance outside your window, and still,
nothing.
My motivation for life has always been tied to foolish words;
foolish people.

A musk is left on my scarf from the night before.
It's from the woman I did not speak to.
I can write now.
I can dance too.
Of the things I still have not done.
With the music that will never come.
504 · Jul 2014
no matter how far you go
Your blue eyes are infections for each one of mine.
My double barreled siren.
Stop killing me with that look.
Piercing oceans slap against my
Sea side ribs.
Tangent truths are dead to me.
Your blue eyes make sense to me.

You are my guarantee.
504 · Sep 2014
They have us beat
I sat by the river
And waited to die.
I felt only shivers
When I tasted Monday's suicide.
I packed my green suitcase
The night before.
I must have meant it.
It's time to go.

Mondays were always deaths joke.
504 · Sep 2015
The words of September
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.
497 · May 2016
Innocence
A look to a child
In all their unbridled
Innocence
And a thought:
Where did I leave mine?

It is all over the place.
The traumas of growing up.
The realization that people
Are their own worse enemies
At times.

All the time instead.

In the broken pieces
Of you,
Put back together
In a haste,
Only to be shattered again.

This innocence,
Abstract now,
Does exist
In the person you
Once were,
That child nurtured
To love, molded to hate.

A rotten fruit now;
Only on the inside.

Your smiles have turned
Into dissatisfaction for
Your lack of action
In existing,
Forgetting to live.

You grew up too fast.
Now it is to late to go back.
I envy the shadow of a tree.
Oh how it dances every single day,
like clockwork; because it is.
Its green children in summer.
Its brown ones in fall.
All live and die multiple times.
No sleep for them, just white death;
black life.
Tingling tentacles tease me as they wrap themselves
in me.
Underwater mermaids pour mercury down my
crustacean filled throat.
Pleased to meet you in this blue utopia.
Pleased to feel you in my sunken heart.
Rhythmic repulsions fill blue buckets with chum.

July burns suicides on burnt out tags
wrapped around
toes.
All these blank, useless colors are salesmen to me.
I can see right through them though.
Truths are useful only for those looking for them.
Here's our cut open shame for all to see.
Miracles ***** rainbows and empty out tongue
filled pots.
You can have this truth.
Please, have mine.
491 · Jul 2014
The oldest disguise
Pour the magician a glass full of rainbows.
Pick your poison, pick your fuzzy pain.
Smash through walls and collapse from your sorrow,
It's 4.a.m again, there is nothing more to gain.
A shot for his royal pardons,
A sip for her lovely corpse.
The bottles leave you disheartened.
The ****** ***** you, now your voice is horse.
A forced laugh runs out of you;
there was once a happy child in those eyes.
Your world has left you ******, and bruised.
She's a magician and hides using the oldest disguise;

she hides inside your heart.
483 · Sep 2014
The Procedure in June
I was too young to know what I did not know.
Whimsical love penetrated me at an early age.
I promised I loved you and for all this show:
You slithered out of my life and felt no disgrace.

Your love was really yellow tubes coming and going;
in one orifice and out of another.
You danced like a ballerina and put on a beautiful showing,
You slithered out of my life and became my ex-lover.

I made you up in dreams now buried in shallow graves.
Then you came true and without warning I'd found my place.
You left in the yellow night that belongs to the moon,
You slithered out of my life and you made me **** my muse.

Nine years have passed now with little to show for it.
I cower at the thought of you and now I fear flowers in June.
The valley of death I know now has a big, black grin.
You slithered out of my life on the day where lovers meet gloom.
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.
476 · Jul 2014
A truth mixed with magic
A child once told me poets are magicians.

I showed her the trick.

Now we are all crooks to her.
472 · May 2016
True self
A poem in dealing:
Drink.
****.
Pills.
Excess.
Repeat.

You're not Bukowski.
The hopeless ask only for a morsel of it;
they gave them their crumbs again.
Despair is disguised as long legs and delicious lips;
She gave me her crumbs instead.

Tongue tied behind barbed wire fences and tacky
cheap cologne from a father now dead.
His sins became my weight to carry up that hill;
I do it with a smile and the smell of cheap cologne.

Whispers of death or sanity travel from your mouth;
touch my lips with that mouth instead.
Lies and crimes and sigh and whines mix well
for a youth unable to become a man of this time.

I asked for forgiveness or pleasure, and instead;
they have me their crumbs instead.
Suicide is only the scream that cannot be heard.
I spit out their crumbs and took it all instead.
469 · Aug 2014
All the cool people drink
I grab the bottle by its throat,
I take a chug and feel at peace.
It's 11 p.m. and there's remorse,
It's left me feeling bleak.

The clock strikes midnight,
it's time to rage.
There is only time for lies;
for tonight, I am the worlds plague.

It's 2 a.m. and my liver cries,
stop it, stop, or else I'll die.
I cannot take one more drop,
It's time for bed, alone, for me to rot.

The next morning there is sin on my tongue,
I've lost my pants and my favorite socks.
The night is fuzzy, it's good to be young,
Thank God for photography, lets see all the nights fun.
467 · Apr 2015
splinter
Divorce splits not only families,
But souls.
It leaves damage more powerful
Than a hurricane,
But,
Like a thief in the night,
It leaves no evidence behind.
467 · Dec 2014
depression wears a dress
Depression wears a black dress,
Embroidered with silver smiles.
Every man has his nights;
Every lust has his crimes.
This skin manifest straight from hell.
(You're hot to the touch.)
You lift your dress even higher;
I see your denials
And I smile.
466 · Jun 2014
Carved into the woods
I mumbled through the thick woods,
searching for those screeching howls.
On purpose, I step on dead leaves,
Leaving a trail you will know.
Carved in trees are lovers that I mourn,
the woodpecker tapping the trees makes me feel at home.
This trail has left my interiors mangled and decayed,
my spirit drained, but yet, I'm sane.
The howls seem to be searching for me now.
Finally, they found the trail that they know.

I smile when the find me in the end.
Chime along you baby child of mine.
Suckling out the little I have left.
Your mouth spits out leftover, green grime;
Unable to use it for the little left unsaid.
Rage through the age of remembrance,
Dance with the sass of the moon in June.
Ode to the majesty that is you!
Ode to the songs trapping all of your gloom.
The ages will remember little of you in the end.
It will end only in your death.
Little child of mine, do not cry.
It's only the fury that we call our lives.
Rushed back by the eastward winds,
It's our horses galloping, and on them, our sins.
Through the trenches and in the form of a flood,
Comes our remorse, it's face covered in blood.

Chime along you baby child of mine.
I have no more to give, for you see, I am almost dead.
Before I leave you, I give you my heart and my spine.
Here is the lesson: don't leave things unsaid.

That is the ultimate death.
464 · Jun 2014
Whispers and Writers
The wind whispers about a life that was lived
by the cracks on the hand.
There are no answers there,
of this I swear.
The poet knows never what he truly means
when he writes.
He cannot save you;
You're through!
The leftover words are lessons for others,
but not for the writer.
This selfish cynic cannot see the irony here.
He whispers and writes, but never with purpose or life.
I cough out nostalgia on cold nights,
It is beaten and battered.
Lilacs are laying on the lime colored floor.
September reminds me of a time I thought I had
already mourned.
Those brief encounters with you were seismic in size,
(I just didn't know that then.)
Lovers and roses only intertwine on cold,
autumn nights.
(I just didn't know that then.)

The river flows through shards of sharp glass looking
words.
The mystic memories were the only things trapped deep
in my cauldron.
I threw in remorse for a better taste, but,
it only left a sour sadness were I once had graze.


I cough out nostalgia on those cold,
misty mid autumn nights.
Those lilacs have suffered enough;
it's time to go home.
Those lilacs have suffered enough;
it's time to go home.
459 · Aug 2015
I need your light
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.
457 · Jun 2014
You get no visitors at all
Love, you sly,
slithering snake.
How you persuade all to fall
on your blade.
Cut the artery; replace the heart
with a shade.
That's love;
shadows shifting until it concaves.
Suffocating its victims, leaving no prints for its
crime.
Its idea becomes lucid, prose preaching its
message on ice.
The body is left shattered, thinking it was once
wise.
It smirks at your faith in it.
The crossroads between the pines.
445 · Jul 2014
From as far as I can tell
Down through the riverbed is an underlined truth;
They have it better than us.
Critters that walk with their own pace;
no plan really.
Creatures that **** because of need;
not for enjoyment.
Their sunny days are better than ours.
Their rainy days are heaven and hell.
We live with them, not them with us.
445 · Aug 2014
A universe in her eyes
I looked straight into her eyes;
It was sadness, unknown.
There were other people too,
Looking back.
It was her ghosts.
It was desperation.
It was that overwhelming sun
Of June.

Her skin
peeled off too.
It was beautiful to see.
It was blatant truth.
443 · Feb 2015
the season of the unsaid
You languish in angst that is full of needy sores.
Those blue viles come straight from heaven to send you to hell.
It's the only respite from everything
I was;
Everything I can't.
This language has the odor of death.
This stamp on my heart is dried,
Broken,
Dead.

A river runs from my heart to yours.
They are now separated by crooked ways;
They go this way and that.
Still though, we occasionally meet at the place where death meets our tattered hearts.

July is the season for lovers unwilling to know everything about the stars.
October hides it's own language too.
Listen for the secrets of August.

Anne Sexton knew what death really is and was and will always be.
It is not an escape.
It is not rest.
It is everything left unfaid.

"I still love you."

That's my truth.
436 · May 2015
The hurricane in me
There is a hurricane in me,
Leaving my organs,
My soul,
My essence in shambles.

I am in the eye of the storm now.

I can ready myself
For the next
Barrage.
Put up those palates
With rusted nails.
Scratch the linens on my organs.

Bleed, bleed, bleed!

I am in the eye of the storm.
The calm. The calm.
I can rest. It is a respite
From all.

You'll be back though.
I know this.
I won't be ready; I'll survive.
You might **** me though
With your god like winds
Devastating my insides.

I'll never be ready for this.
That's the point:
To be ready for anything means
That we know nothing.

My hurricane. My selfish tongue needs you.
You need me.
We need each other.
The calmness of death.

Die, die, die!
436 · Jul 2015
That July Night
The muddy dirt I walk on
Are the lies I've told.
*****, unashamed of the
Suicides in my head.
It's all been said.
All the moons are full tonight,
White with innocence.

The rain washes nothing away,
Only the surface lies.
They died there in that July night.
The night of my first suicide.

Enter date here.

The leaves on those trees are self
Sufficient, unlike most men.
The sons of God, the ******* of a
Society unwilling the see the
Lies I've,
we've told.
Say no more.
This is the death foretold.
The tree of death is here for you,
Unwilling to leave without your flesh.
This is the truest truth.

A death foretold.
A suicide, unashamed.

The death, in living, is here
For me,
For you,
For them,
For the *******.

The muddy dirt
That I walk on,
Paced only by the beat of the heart
I left on the moon all those years ago.

One pump.
Then another.
One more for show.
There's a joke in that.
436 · Nov 2015
It ruined me
You ruined me.
There you go
Rolling
Down from your
Mountain
Top
Towards your very own
Suicide.
You've named it Epiphany.
She's dressed to ****,
Eager to as well.
You roll
down
Down,
down,
Your mountain top
Surrounded with
Her kisses.

Your suicide,
That final scene;
It ruined me.
422 · May 2014
Untitled
You ever floating truth,
Stuck in my throat.
I can't get you out,
Nor do I want to.
That's my truth.

A great liar is a true artist.
His teeth are totem poles that have been
Toppled over.
He has left his mark,
Just like his lies.

Ask the truth of a liar and he gives you
What you need.
All the liar to lie,
There you have your miracle.
He is a God laying on the ocean shore.
421 · Sep 2015
Flowers and Words
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.
The walls bleed blue blood,
Like a Reverend who cannot
Make love.
God will smite thee.
My sins are on these walls.
All the loves and all the might
Have beens are whispering from
These walls with the best secret
Of all: love hides in the chaos
Of the waves inside your head.

Close your eyes and feel, don't see,
This love that never hides.
It's in between the ripples.
Look!
It's her smile and those hazel eyes you
Lust over.
It's the skin that was so soft you
Knew it was the devils work.
It's her laugh,
Oh god,
That laugh that kills you every
Single
Time.

****.

It's the way she caressed your soul
And whispered, like a bandit
With a bad secret: this is love.
This is home.

Why didn't you steal this memory, my bandit in the night?
Like the gold watch on the night stand, it has worth.
The important things have more worth than all the gold in the world.

She,
Those blistering June nights when
We would kiss.
This IS home.
This was home.

I pray to the shadows and I tell you this.
"You're already home were you feel loved."
They leave me alone now, those shadows, with their lonely smiles.
They have their pain.

I have mine.
417 · Aug 2014
blue bottle
Help me. Help me. Help.
My heart and soul are dancing
To the song of death.
Barricade yourself behind sheet thin walls:
you have a lover and his lust.
A velvet rope will suffice.
As delicate as your skin.
As sinful as your tricks on her heart.
You pestilent child.
Your lies as thick as her favorite book.
Lies converge with truth on black nights.
One covers the other.
I could never tell what is what or who is who.
The city stands over you and stares, shamefully.
Those tricks are the work of the devil.
Those sins are perfected by man.
Caress her skin and lie upon her.
Finish what you started.
Every stroke is a lie, a crime, best seen blind.
409 · Sep 2014
The faces of July
My love for you is a sin.
This medallion around my
neck burns me now.
It was a gift from a time that felt
as innocent as your skin once did.
The walls are marked red tonight;
I couldn't help playing God.
Pull this pink blob of  mass
out of me.

God has made me from bottom to top.
He saved the last for worse.
He must have made me in July.

I still dream of you by mistake.
When I drive to work
there you are.
I see you in the tears that jump
out of me.

Sometimes, and only sometimes,
I honestly miss you;
but only in the heat of July.

This medallion
around my neck
is to heavy now.
I can't take it off.
It's burnt onto my
skin and the only
thing left to do now
is dance in the marsh
where I met you on
that warm night with
no name to it because
once I laid my eyes on
you I forgot all;
all but your eyes.

You're gone now,
just like the brightness
of July.
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