This place is toxic,
it carries a weight
that will fall in the corner
with hearts listed fragile
and feelings agape
Swallowing reason
in populist pander
Singing the praises
which bark at the moon
Touching the skin
of a lonely world traveler
Jogging the distance
in words repeated
Beware of the smiles,
the frowns and the teardrops
gathered from distant borders
Taking the spirit
along on the breezes
Casting it forth
in a starless night
with biting fireflies,
electric stingers
glowing for even
the farthest of eyes
hoping only for happiness
Take caution when
spilling emotions,
painting vistas
in cranberry sighs
for blooming gardens
don’t always offer fragrance
in its most appealing form
Thorny revisions hurt,
trickling blood on the stone
A craggy thought
which will never
be a turnip
Tread lightly where matters
of love matter
For like the magical tablecloth,
not only the silverware
and fine china
will be left sitting alone,
but so will you,
empty, unfulfilled
watching the white cotton
disappear,
yanked from your existence
This place is toxic
poetic poison drips, drips, drips
Intravenous contagions
transferred from one to the other
Building fires and fever,
blazing flesh from bone,
killing inspiration
till it is nothing more than
a pile of ash
waiting to be sifted through
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
This place is toxic,
it carries a weight
that will fall in the corner
with hearts listed fragile
and feelings agape
Swallowing reason
in populist pander
Singing the praises
which bark at the moon
Touching the skin
of a lonely world traveler
Jogging the distance
in words repeated
Beware of the smiles,
the frowns and the teardrops
gathered from distant borders
Taking the spirit
along on the breezes
Casting it forth
in a starless night
with biting fireflies,
electric stingers
glowing for even
the farthest of eyes
hoping only for happiness
Take caution when
spilling emotions,
painting vistas
in cranberry sighs
for blooming gardens
don’t always offer fragrance
in its most appealing form
Thorny revisions hurt,
trickling blood on the stone
A craggy thought
which will never
be a turnip
Tread lightly where matters
of love matter
For like the magical tablecloth,
not only the silverware
and fine china
will be left sitting alone,
but so will you,
empty, unfulfilled
watching the white cotton
disappear,
yanked from your existence
This place is toxic
poetic poison drips, drips, drips
Intravenous contagions
transferred from one to the other
Building fires and fever,
blazing flesh from bone,
killing inspiration
till it is nothing more than
a pile of ash
waiting to be sifted through
