Dying
I define the self,
With cascading thoughts,
Memories that flutter,
Like stomach knots,
Neurons that fire,
Aware of themselves,
Picking poems and stories,
Like novels off shelves,
But slipping through fingers,
Like arrows do souls,
Glancing off fragments,
That once made us whole,
Reminding the spirit,
We all had a name,
In a place that existed,
Just out of frame.
"In your chest between ribs,
Nestled on breath,
I wither with you,
In the embrace of Death,
Who constantly waits,
Just out of sight,
Breathing my name,
And blowing out lights."
I know I can't love you,
Whoever you are,
You glimmer like her,
And I still have the scar.
It may have switched sides,
It may be content,
But whenever I kiss you,
It acts like a vent.
I am what I am,
I'll make you unhappy.
I'll write her these poems,
Thickly and sappy,
Knowing full well,
She wont see a word,
As the thoughts that she loved me,
Come off as absurd.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 4:16 AM UTC
Dying
I define the self,
With cascading thoughts,
Memories that flutter,
Like stomach knots,
Neurons that fire,
Aware of themselves,
Picking poems and stories,
Like novels off shelves,
But slipping through fingers,
Like arrows do souls,
Glancing off fragments,
That once made us whole,
Reminding the spirit,
We all had a name,
In a place that existed,
Just out of frame.
"In your chest between ribs,
Nestled on breath,
I wither with you,
In the embrace of Death,
Who constantly waits,
Just out of sight,
Breathing my name,
And blowing out lights."
I know I can't love you,
Whoever you are,
You glimmer like her,
And I still have the scar.
It may have switched sides,
It may be content,
But whenever I kiss you,
It acts like a vent.
I am what I am,
I'll make you unhappy.
I'll write her these poems,
Thickly and sappy,
Knowing full well,
She wont see a word,
As the thoughts that she loved me,
Come off as absurd.
A poem that bothers to explore the fantasy of true love in a setting not unlike a tragedy.