poetry is emotion. its just a sputtering stream of how our mouths process it. sometimes its little drips of crimson blood, drawing lines from our lips to our hearts. others, its a projectile scream; something we can stop or close our mouths to. it affects other people, splatters of my blood on her shirt or my scream shattering her eardrums but now she has crimson to spill and it trickles down her lips.
two children, rocking back and forth on creaking wooden swings aged with time the sky dark, casting a blue-grey filter over the world a little blue skirt swings with the inertia a teddy in the small pale hand "are you like me" patent leather shoes scrape the wet mulch beneath the swing "that depends, how do you play" "i play with minds, i show them things only i can see" "well, when i play, they feel things they dont know how to feel" "so you are like me" "i guess... do they take you to big people in white coats" "yes... do they try to make you blind like them" "yes... i tried to introduce them to my friends, but they couldn't see them" "i can help you" "okay" "wanna work together, to show them" "yes, that would be fun"
one thing you didnt notice the teddy has no head how innocent how sweet
hey, im back, feel frickin free to comment, as always
you're in my way now you're on the ground what happened to you there's blood in your mouth there's blood on my hand shiny, metallic, sweet can i taste it are you scared i am i don't know why i guess i'll keep walking over your face ****** footprint on your cheek i'm sorry (no i'm not)
pitter-patter on my head turning my face to the heavens acid burning a line of tears thunder-beating of my heart; heavy and rhythmic lightning-spark of my breath; sharp and bright dark cloud, large and menacing hanging just above my head