pressed flowers are still dead flowers,
like dressing up a corpse.
a naive form of taxidermy;
creating beauty from dead things.

daily, i spend several hours
cowering over mortality,
wondering if i, too, will be
stuffed, positioned in motion,
my presence interwoven
in stories and broken words,
scattered like ashes in the ocean.

or, perhaps, i'll only be
a narrative forever at rest,
pressed
between pages of poetry.

Since you died i've felt you,
Hanging around me, placing yourself into my poems.
They might not see you there but I do,
You’re always there.

You never fail to leave a piece of you,
Hidden within each and every line
Reminding me you're gone
Sometimes i wish i could stop you.
Beg you to let me write happily

My poetry is never happy anymore.

But Dad, since you died i've felt you
Holding onto my pen, stuck writing with me.
Dad i write my poems for you now
Every word is yours.
Wherever you are i hope youre proud,
Of the person your only daughter has become today

Can't call 911 for this,
I can't save you this time.

Open the curtains for the first time in ages.
The walls weep,
dripping yellow-brown nicotine,
crying brown tears for you.
Carpet stained spots of brown black blood,
a macabre Jackson *******.
Stained, sweat-soaked sheets smell,
the stench of withdrawal and agony.
**** and mold growing on the toilet,
like tiny bonsai trees.

The sun catches your face,
lightly touching a cheek-bone,
saying goodbye in it's own way.
Hazel eyes wide open,
mouth frozen,
a sort of painful grimace.

I want to clean it all away.
I want to scrub every wall,
every moulding,
every inch.
Bleach it all white.
Pull the **** across a giant etch-a-sketch of the scene.
And when it's clean,
When all of it is finally clean...

I will cover every wall like a canvas, with every note you ever left me.
Top to bottom,
wall to wall,
I will paint your words.
When I was away too long and you missed me,
when you wanted to cheer me up,
Or when you just wanted to say,
"I love you".

i want my poems to have teeth.  
i want my words to cut,
to maim, to bleed.
with verses, i will raze
empires. with stanzas,
i will turn thrones to dust.
with nothing but a bit
of silver on my tongue,
i will take the life of god.

i’ll ply that same *****
like honey, taste the sweet
nothings dripping
between knocking knees.
quake and quiver for me,
let me slip, furtive
as nightshade
to sate your curiosity.

feel the weight of veracity
in these fingers patiently
transcribing forgotten melodies,
compressing ivory keys
to sing of all that was lost
and what was gained
from the process.

Dust and Dead Weight
Shrouded in anguish
Marked by shame
Violent air in weary bones
Bathing in these
Waning threads of light
Vermillion mark
Were the heart used to be
Hyper, abandoned on the water
Rosy and disquieting
Tedious ricochet
Sacrificial devotion
The dizzying indecision
The paper thin backbone
Always the backbone  

Everything once gentle
Now littered with thorns
It always ends here
Dust and dead weight.