Blood clotted tissues,

Full of blood

clotted

tissue,

I find

myself

waiting,

In the

waiting room....

Again.

I have a splinter in my heart
right in the middle point between the left atrium and the right ventricle.

A little husk of a beechtree seed
landed on the fragment of wood that now lives within me
and it cannot be removed or I will bleed all over and dry out.

It’s putting down roots on my cardial muscle tissue
one day it will break free, reaching for the stars.

Depression…
Where every shirt sleeve becomes a tissue

Freezing Moon* by the stereo
and as a bed poet
I'm takin' a ****.

Did you know about that guy
who slit his wrist… on this? she says.
No; Martha, Jessica, Julia: but still…

Here, alone, with the MacBook Air
- or was it Pro? Nevertheless,
an useless tool for worthless ****.

****, Pr0n, Pony - *******.

Here, alone, I and only I writes with the capital I.
And after the **** has gone
it feeds the air with oriental glams of leprosy:

and after a long working day I am not afraid,
watching its face, as I'm flushing it in the toilet
just like all the *******' poetries @ Home-Poetry.

Gently I watch from the dark
Pushing up a thin tissue front
Into the harsh light.
It wavers in the breeze, yes,
But let's through some honeyed light
Enough to twine my fingers through
And pour into me with life
My sheild from the burning,
Men with claws scratch, boring holes
That burn before my tissue can close,
And a sore, stinging soul
But the dark will wash it away
With tears and hope,
Innocence before it opens its eyes
To the light.

I started tearing a tissue.
An old tissue in which the cotton is easy tearing apart.
I tore it into stripes,
Twitch it in the small pieces of cloth.
It was a summer afternoon,
I sat slumped on the kitchen floor.
In the distance you could hear the radio.
Last night I cried.
And this morning.
In a dream.
Under my withered eyelids
You appeared
Bringing the blossomed memories.
In immoral attempts
You want me sunken.
Red dust of tissue
And that tingling all over me
In this icy solitude
They take you by your waist
And it's like you're here with me,
With your head laid on the ****** tiles.
Suffering floats through the air
Darkened with the walls of smoke.
I'm touching your death,
Calmed for a long time,
I'm saving your pain
In the interior of your ribs.
I can not tell whether this is really you,
Grubby and rotten.
Crushed.
With my lips I'm touching the red clusters of your brain
Which is slowly turning into roses
Or maybe cyclamen.
You are still present here,
Your beauty has not changed
Although your eyes are empty and cheeks sunken.
I wipe your face remains with a tissue
And I cry.
I killed you,
And put your soul in a jar
Painted in the colors of my heart.
And now we are here
Together reclining in clotted blood
Covered with cotton threads
Of a tissue.