I think about my death.
The seed of life
is so
profuse,
and that
is
my demise.
I might live,
but I will die.
When I dream,
I dream
of Judy Greer.
She's been there
talking
about
love and fucking
and death
and hurting.
So what can I say now,
when bulletholes
of lightning
people my dreams.
When a couple
shots of whiskey
have put me on the edge
of missing you
over memories.
I moan
and dream,
because dreaming
is a moan
for hope.
And being in for a bid,
is the same
as your lips
to
my
lips.
So I evade promises
and dribble
into traps
of
depression.
I've had this problem
for so long,
it seems inconsequential
that I might
wring my neck
by an electrical cord,
or by the chords
of your heart..
Because i miss you
and that
type
of
thing
never lets go
to much.
I stare at humans with an anchor in my hands.
I don't know if I should break
their noses,
or
tell them how it got there.
Don't hate me,
just be grateful;
that I told you I'm so sad
and worn out.