I met a woman
With hot spring eyes
Hues of healing water
And copper soil
With the presence of a redwood
She entangles her roots
To the wounded
Until their winter thaws
we are the masters of self-destruction
trying to numb the pain with wine
and smoke filling up our lungs,
we write down in lines with no rhyme
all the things
that make our souls burn and die.
our poems bleed
we drink their blood
then we write again,
listening to stupid songs all night
wishing sometimes we were deaf
wishing we were dead.
we let the doors open
anyone with a knife can come inside
cutting our hearts in half,
any tear is welcome
to create the ocean around us
in which we deliberately drown ourselves.
masters of self-destruction,
our bodies are temples where dying souls hide,
we run till our legs are broken
jump off cliffs
go between sharks' cheeks
forgetting to sleep
it's a madmen game we play
while slowly taking steps to the graves
we dug for ourselves,
the masters of self-destruction we are
worshiping what's not for us to adore
hearts cut and eaten
flesh ripped from our bones
lungs full of water
our eyes scream
but that's fine
'cause we are the masters of self-destruction
and our life is just a mad game
welcome to the show.
my breath sends clouds back to the sky
while bitter winds pull tears from my eyes.
December is like trudging through each weekend's heavy snowfall
And I'm sitting here aching, awaiting the healing, awaiting your call.
December is like hanging onto a rope too tightly,
When I loosen my grip, you tug again, nightly.
December has me at the end of a yo-yo string,
You drop me and I bounce between yes's and no's that sting.
December did not bring happy holidays this year,
I'm forcing smiles through the inevitable cheer.
December is my broken my heart, a heavy snowfall,
I'm aching, I'm healing, I'm forgetting your call.
She pressed flowers on felt
like kisses to scar tissue,
the petal pieces decayed
without osmosing into a page,
allowing dysphoria to flow
as a champagne tributary.
Drive down highway seventy-four
littered with photos with crosses
you; almost a face
or name painted on paint
a theory i toy with most days
you; almost my small prayer
to a strange family tingling in tragedy
devoid of a son named after an old car
my soul; almost spared
of dirt burn and barbed wire snare
The portentous road, i should have known.
If your crash was fatal where would I be?
Nothing brings me more joy or sorrow than you.
stuck to my lungs
I never licked
bit the bit
glossed by ringlet lips,
It was against a belief
held tightly by
It came tumultuously
tearing at the capacity of
No auroral eye could foresee
the disease packaged in
we were an almost
worse than nothing at all
on bed i turn and toss
for the love i lost
i'm aware that i'm the one who
left that day, so
what right do i possess
to have a say
i still get confused
as to why i left you
yet i still am to be held accused
for all the lies i told you
it's for the best, or so i tell myself