Her words were
as sharp as
the Reaper’s sickle,
severing my soul
into two separate shards
then splitting them
again and again
till all that I was,
was splinters
of my shadow self.

The bulging black boil
that bursts
spewing spurts
of yellow viscus
poison liquid.

The pulsing throb
of fevered flesh
that spreads it
dark veins
across itself
like a sick spider web.

The tight tendrils
that throttle your throat
till you cough and choke
spitting out your own
saliva.

The foreign feel
of that strange
and sad
forever fatigue
that beckons you to sleep.

The last look taken
as nothing consumes
the consciousness
that once bloomed,
and thoughts of pain
no longer trouble
that particular brain.

Looking back
is like biting my tongue
till the blood
trickles just a bit.

It is like picking
a painful scab
and letting all that
little red
slowly slide
down the side
of your itchy arm.

It is like a melody
of soft melancholia,
a deep and dangerous
cavern full of
things that crawl
but never **** you.

It is all ages past,
all broken moons,
all crescent shapes,
that come closer,
to cut you.

It is one thousand
self-inflicted wounds
pursued for the sake
of some unknown goal.

She slept
in silent contentment,
the soft saltwater
serenity
moving gently
in a cradling
motion

The silver streaking
salmon school
barely moving
hiding under
the algae laden water
while sinking
into the deeper trenches,

As the cool white
moonlight
reflected
in rippling water
for no one to see.

Your grief is transient.
In time, you will
either handle it
or die.

To love is to live
risking darkness,
searching for light
in the face of madness.

Life is a trickle in a faucet
filling it up with discontent.
It is the pitter patter of water
soon to be possibly stagnant
in that cracked porcelain sink.

But all that liquid grows
till it overflows
or evaporates
seeking some salty sea.
Though it may go
where it pleases
it leaves me to be
the filthy
stained sink.