465

I heard a Fly buzz—when I died—
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air—
Between the Heaves of Storm—

The Eyes around—had wrung them dry—
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset—when the King
Be witnessed—in the Room—

I willed my Keepsakes—Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable—and then it was
There interposed a Fly—

With Blue—uncertain stumbling Buzz—
Between the light—and me—
And then the Windows failed—and then
I could not see to see—

I'm getting lost in my mind trying to leave behind everything that leads to you
But in the end I met with repercussions with no idea what to do.
And I am told to ignore all your words from the past of my youth
But how do you muffle sounds when it was all you ever knew?

at this moment reminiscing gives me such a high
but I know I'll withdrawal before the end of the night
And the tears that I'm holding are comming on nigh
I know the sheets will drown with shattered dreams at the end of the night.

But it wasn't your fault at least that's what I say
Because once a heart is set, it can't change its way
or Changes its course it has for the day
or for the rest of its life though it brings dismay.

I was too caught up in visions too caught up in scripted fantasies
to even acknowledge that it aint possible this thought of you and me.
But that's what happens when you are a teenager in love  you disagree
With the truth that lies before you, you try to work its kinks.

And I am sorry for applying too much pressure when you were screaming for me to stop
I guess lost in my own head the screws the pins all of 'em popped
Leaving me diluted with polluted thoughts.
But that's what happens when you are a teenager in love  you disagree
With the truth that lies before you, you try to work its kinks.

if this was a poem
it would be total ****
because it doesn't rhyme
and there's no rhythm
and there are no answers

Today, poetry is in my bones--
words reverberating against flesh,
holding up my body
through ribcage and skull.
I am a skeleton of sonnets.
If you were to cut me open,
verse would flow out:
I stain pages with ink-splot blood.