you forgot to take it to the curb you forgot to empty it your mind had been full overflowing with the memories of us it sat there for awhile you wanted to keep them but they began to decompose perish rot to their cores and the smell lingered you started to bag it all up one by one you put pieces of us in a jet black plastic bag with a twist tie and walked us to the curb
Under the birthstones in the carcass yard is where the flesh tombs lie. Decomposing for three long years. Eradicating memories, dreams and fears. Becoming next, the black gloop treacle of putrification. Now bones, just old bones is the remain of what was once, a spirit with a name.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Birthstones = gravestones Carcass yard = graveyard Flesh tomb = a body (alive or dead)
I don't want to write poetry. I want to rip apart my brain and feed it to my thoughts of decay. I do not want to think of you, because it is evidently clear that you cannot be a constant, So I shall extract you (and all the thoughts, words, and phrases too) from my mind. You may not enter this home, I locked you out long ago. Your little petty games did you no favours, tied tight to immaturity, it looked too much like not committed, so I sent it all away from me. In this case, not knowing no grey is an advantage, I would rather not choose to sedate my appetite with your little crumbs of "love" (good morning, how are you? every birthday). It may take years but I won't forget that I am not in the business of decomposing yet.
Come child, Wash those cobwebs from your eyes, let not that sadness clutter your vision. I know your mistakes and faults keep you up, wrap them away, your silk thoughts, and bury them within you. We all know misery thrives on sorrow, and infected hands handle peace. I see the black veins in your gaunt hands, and soon we will all know , the messenger of mercy, is the heart- becoming silent, only speaking with a language of tears. And not even you my dear, can escape from the sticky entanglement that murders beauty and passion.