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Anthony Perry Jan 2016
I am unsolved, I am a statue in mortality, my smile has had an impact on society but my life has never been absolved

All I wanted to do was entertain, but instead, someone betrayed me and let my blood fall like rain and with nothing to gain

Before and after, my eyes have always been open so while you figure out who's the killer wheather it was Rob, Ed, or that guy Hansen, I have to wait, invisible to the world and lost until then

I've been killed, tortured but you all just talk about which side they cut first or how my body tore, the name is Black Dahlia and that name has become a media *****

My smile has been smeared ear to ear, my body severed in half, my veins drained of every quart but I am still proud to say my name is Elizabeth Short
Anthony Perry Jan 2016
Coagulated blood dried out from the sun, footprints pressed into the mud from a night on the run, chased and ravaged, pressed against a tree with emotions gutted.

Mutilated and dying, I'm laying under falling stars, saturated skies and underlying scars, every conversation with you feels like being run over by a highway full of cars.

Blood screaming from a cautourised wound travels farther than your ability to listen to reason, wide eyed, your pasteurized white eyes seem cold but searing like the flesh of a steaming heathen.

Necrosis sets in on the heaping pile of me drudged upon the roots of my personification, watch the black blood slipping through the dirt like molasses as it climbs over your teeth and grips the lips before it passes, blood loss is creating a hallucination.

Watch as I become hollow from your cannibalistic lifestyle. Your desperation, human flesh you defiled, mindless separation, our family's bodies stuffed in a corner and piled, you became a Wendigo, a wicked transmorgification.
In the haunts of a shadow he dwells
unseen
so as not to surrender his stoic vision
unheard
eyeing his subject with cat-like secrecy
prowling among the broken souls
absorbed in the sorrow of the hopeless
destined to report on the status of pain

from his silent pulpit
to silent eyes
the poet returns
to affix a smile
  Jan 2016 Anthony Perry
Chloe
You stopped reading my poetry, so I decided to stop writing you poems. All you gave me were rocks to fill my pockets, although the weight kept me grounded for a while. After all, I was constantly drifting away.
I told you I was afraid of the dark so you made sure to keep my life bright.
Then you left.
Lights out.
You never noticed that even 6 months after our break up you're pictures so hung on my wall. Memories are of you are like horror movies and love stories bleeding on my carpet. You made me believe I was making something out of nothing. But before I could blink you disappeared. I begged you to stay but you shut the door in my face. No matter how hard I pushed you wouldn't open the ******* door. I didnt want to go anywhere else because you're the only home I've ever known. So what was I supposed to do when you locked the ******* door? Where do I go when "home" doesn't want me anymore? Broken and scared, I built myself a shelter out of sticks and drug addicts. Now that's where I stay. You swallowed the words "I love you" rather than feeling them get caught in your throat like blood filling up your lungs.  Trust me when I say I can't get the words off my ******* tounge. Of all the things I've left unsaid, I just wanted to scream, choose me. Choose the girl who loves you more than herself. Choose me, because of all the people in the past, future and present, I would still choose you. I wanted to beg, whatever you do, just don't leave me the way my father did. But you are long gone and I'm left to wonder why. Why didn't you choose me? I thought it was clear you should choose the girl with 7 knives sticking out of her chest, still fighting. Why wouldn't you choose the girl crying on her knees, begging,  DON'T LEAVE. But I don't blame you for choosing the ocean.  After all, who wouldn't? I'm a ***** puddle a dog wouldn't even drink from. The walls even started talking to me. Every night whispering "what if". I thought I would be devastated when you left. And I was. For months and months and months. I was a ******* disaster. Leaving pieces of my heart everywhere I went in an attempt to leave you in the past. Yet I just lost more of myself rather than you. Some nights you still coat my pillow in tears. Yet I'm thankful that some day I might forget the sound of your voice, I'll still remember the way you held me as I cried while I opened up about my ****. I'll still remember walks through the park and making love beneath the trees... My memories of you are warm like fire, like growth, evolution, the way nature will keep existing long after our love dies out. I always begged for you to worry about me, to wonder why I was drifting away. But when you didn't fight for me, I started using my own fists. Now I'm coping with the reality that our hearts don't stop beating even when our lovers have stopped giving us reasons to live. I know this is over. I won't beg you to come back, because I know- I already know. This won't last. But all I needed was for you to act like every thing was okay, until I could learn how to live when everything isn't. I still miss you, and oh god, the way our legs tangled together under the covers, my head on your chest. But lately I've been crying when I think of the way you touched me because your touching someone else.
So if you are trying to read between the lines of my poetry, if you are finally wondering how I'm doing:
I'm learning to live without you. Most nights my heart aches. Sometime I think I should have crashed my car the night I was driving alone. But the truth is, I seen the brightest of days with you. And with a little patients, I'll see bright days again. When it comes down to it, I will be okay. I will be more than okay. With or without you.
Anthony Perry Jan 2016
An open mind is an open vein.

Insane thoughts convey into Cain intravenously then pour out vicariously through Ables brain like a river created from fruitful rain.
 
I don't want to be like Cain or end up like Able, to live disabled and brittle or serve a god and live as a biblical *******.

Realism on a canvas of skin and bone painted by a hand led by sin and the unknown, a brothers keeper estranged with the blood of his own

kept in a state of strife and decay with only dead crops and his thoughts, hes cursed with the lasting of life.
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