#littledeath
What we have become is
'easier than'
Easier than fighting,
easier than being alone,
easier than starting fresh with someone new.
What if the only reason we're seeing this through
is some twisted form of convenience?
Some roundabout portrayal of what's easier than
staying home alone in our rooms.
Months and Years of preparation, dashed in an instant
through a letter, one Form or another.
We keep trying to pick up the pieces
because it's easier than looking into each others' eyes
and admitting we just don't work anymore,
if we ever worked in the first place.
The longer I stay in this dark place
the less likely the latter seems, if I'm honest.
I want this to happen.
It'd be easier than being without you.
Would it?
Would it really?
Or would it just be easier than starting over?
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
Death
is
subjective.
Harvests
of
thought
which
stir the
midnight
consolations
churn
and
turn
empty
capacities.
Emotions
which
awaken
yet
cease
all
in
the
space
of
30
spent
seconds,
little
slaughter.
Equinoxes
sprung
and
autumnal
spines
break
flooding
in
a whispered
annihilation.
Expiration
morphs
wasteland
into
sentience
as
Darkness
of
a post
apocalypse
draws
and
sketches
on
a
spent
sheet of
paper.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
She took me to bed . . .
Skinned in bliss— was reborn, lost,
. . . In her satin folds.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC