I had a love like Emily did
Johnny became my lover.
He taught me so
Much of nothing,
Nothing I needed
If you must tell a lie, do so well -
Lies likely fall apart
Often crumbling due to bumbling
A speakers deadly demise
My passion is the lonely lie
Lone creates shine
A lie must deliver cleverly
Or all would align -
A poetic imitation of Emily Dickinson's "Tell all the truth but tell it slant" I did for my poetry class.
“We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;
one for each gravestone in my brain —
for a single name.
and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,
but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs
and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
My mother said they say the dead are blessed
but i don't think so,
i wake to my dream's afterimage overlaying
the ceiling;i stay laid in place
gorged in holy water, purging away any memory
but that's just not the way it goes;
Sat here as the vinyl needle scratches the same
scabs,as a tired revolver—
leaks **** of sound,thick repitidous clouds which
lead to nowhere and nothing—
a bored, ambient crackle,
In the poetic spirit, it reeks of home
but reminds me I am I, alone
And in the conversing-sense
it gives me a ******* migraine,
it was one of W—’s favourites
when it's tune was still entact
But alas, it is what it is, outside is a world
i've grown too sore to mingle in
(dare i say a multiform delirium where
it's both too typical and too unpredictable
((daren't i blame another reason?)))
Regardless,i'll stay inside another day
and skim and retrace the life that brought us here
to **** the time.
If nothing else.
Death is the thing which withers
The tale that is all told -
And is the moon the world obscures -
And never stops - at all -
And slowest - from the veil - is stirred -
Her new and ancient form -
That holds through night and day interred
Within the heavy storm -
I’ve held her in the grimmest hands -
And yet she spoke to me -
I’ll - never - in eternity
And more than life - of thee
Obviously, I wrote this poem using the rhythm and rhyme pattern of Emily Dickinson's famous "Hope is the Thing with Feathers". I hope that isn't cheating.
dear painted mask slipping off my face,
wet mildewed socks clinging to weary feet,
molasses on my hands shrouded in gloves of lace –
you in the cracked mirror, you rotten, rancid, discarded piece of meat.
o, knotted wicked web of thread,
the faucet of my eye leaks.
emily’s funeral in her head –
it took three weeks
to admit the rot the plumber missed.
to cry when the evening light is dying –
to say that i’m sad – to say i’m ******.
to watch and feel my circuits frying.
blinded and fooled and beaten, i ran and crashed into not-love –
maybe i’m an idiot, because i still can’t tell a pigeon from a dove.
i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway
We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die
But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.
The fly's response to the narrator in Emily Dickinson's poem, "I heard a Fly buzz - when I died"