"amputated" poems
1551
Those—dying then,
Knew where they went—
They went to God’s Right Hand—
That Hand is amputated now
And God cannot be found—
The abdication of Belief
Makes the Behavior small—
Better an ignis fatuus
Than no illume at all—
30.7k
Keep your eyes soft and your dreams
up on the highest shelf so you won't take them down too early;
keep everything that you spill in the dark locked
behind your teeth during the day, don't bring it out before dusk;
like secrets we drip over sidewalk cracks
from cotton-candy sticky fingers and leave our names
dissolved under each other's tongues, the warmth of you is keeping me company
as I try to crawl out of my blood again, they told you to leave
a bread-crumb trail in case your heart becomes too watered down by just visiting
to even remember the vacation at all; you carry
kisses on the knuckles of amputated arms,
driving through parking lots with your seatbelts on,
collections of constellations growing
in the bruises on the insides of your thighs, reminders
of salt & the whites of your eyes;
I'll always carry you around
like scuffed knees and the last time I told you "I'm okay",
I wanna press my fingers into you until your skin is melded
with fire and scraps of things that I could never be,
I hope steel rods grow out of your bones and I hope you gather
bruises before you gather dust,
we are all a little lost and lonely but that never stopped
the accumulation of well-spent nights
coughing up new ways to spell my name
(it sounded foreign before you)
leave this on repeat,
we're going in again.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
we hail from synonyms
replicate those isles of dirt
jagged colossal terrains of earth
which sprouts to scrape
the wisps of pearly clouds
where marble and stone
splintered scorches of gnarled bark
where the soft paws of preying lions
roam within the sea of swaying golden grass
where each stroke of a feathered wing
flourishes the air with its mighty swing
and the threshold of mysterious beings
idle in mischief of deep blue seas
and those salty shores
swallow the iron hulk of ships
and ferocious savages of nature's call
groaning in mourn for her body
her crevasses and pools of spilling
crystal cerulean water
where the malachite moss
sits in stone of endless time
and trees groomed of wind and sun
prideful beneath the drink of the setting morrow
she yearns for the claim of her shape
for the purity of her waters like blood
her parched throat of sandy desert lands
amputated into wells of gorging oil
she suffocates from her very existence
a poison to herself
and as the days wan to a fast massacre
to her own suicidal mission
to feed our negligence
we label:
humanity
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
A wind blows like a wilderness of wolves
A vendetta, an apocalyptic vendetta
In its unpredictable, accidental quality
That swerves images of realization into tragedy
Neglecting all with swift intent upon a fallen fortress
In complected interests of caresses
Neither invited nor encouraged yet displayed
Displayed vividly with exclusive claim to that oppression
That howls by casting itself as a consequence of transgression
Upon a conventional expectation that claims a privileged sense
That persuades without an orator grotesquely amputated shapes
Extending extraordinary artifice as its priceless wealth
But who, yes who, has envy of so rich a nothing
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
II
Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiralling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the corridor, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and we were told to identify faces in these coffin paintings. All day we tried matching, mouth stuttering half-formed names, lost faces, amputated body parts, strangers’ fragmented memory. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw creatures known as man and woman – to the woman on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the man on the left she pointed at the eyeless painting, said, stranger, this is you– and they wept together.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 11:29 AM UTC
I watched the old
gray haired
son of a *****
approach my fence
in the back yard
today,
he - looking up at the
beautiful work of art,
a brilliant Magnolia
that had just flowered
like a proud yawning
lioness at sunset,
his gilded tool
with it’s dangling rope
to hang a miracle
because it had spilled
into his yard
like pink paper leftovers
everywhere,
he decided to repress it
bordering the fence
it was annoying him
and his domain
Rousseau was dead-on
about my chained freedom
the manacles were dangling
and I could hear
him severing and slicing
her arms
it somehow made him
feel better
and he moaned
his wretched realm
on his side of the trellis
and he walked away
after the limbs had fallen
to the ground
to make his cheap ***
ground chuck on rye –
it smelled like ****
the amputated Magnolia
and grease spinning
around my head
I stood there, quietly
thinking how this was
so unwarranted
and what a waste of time
this was,
the tree crying out to me
and somewhere else on earth
another yawning
with laughter.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
You don’t know how it feels.
When you are cut from your lifeline
like an apple being picked
when it isn’t fully grown.
When you are replaced
with hard plastic and metal
where bone should be.
You probably want to know why he hates you.
It is because he has to learn how to walk again.
Because you can’t run like I could.
Because you can’t kick a soccer ball like I could.
Because you can’t make him itch like I could.
Because you are a reminder of the infection.
The infection...
that took me away from him.
I was made with him.
You were made for him.
You took six weeks to be created
I took nine months.
I was his first step,
You were a puzzle piece
that didn’t quite fit
You had to be forced
by people in white masks and blue gloves
They couldn’t touch you and
neither can he.
So instead you lay on his bedroom floor.
And I will not feel bad for you because
I am lying in a medical waste bin.
Waiting for my turn to enter the fire.
This
is
my
hell.
I miss him,
will you tell him
that I miss him?
Let him know the feeling is mutual.
I understand if you tear this up
there is no warmth in you.
No blood will ever pump through you.
Trust me, I get it.
When the heart dies, it is buried where it belongs.
Being hugged by its fellow vital organs.
it’s just like taking a nap
they say.
But when I die,
I am surrounded
by other dispensable body parts.
We are the forgotten few.
People do not have funerals for finger tips.
It feels like I am being eaten alive.
You can’t tell me I should feel bad for you.
Or that I should feel sorry for you.
Because I was alive,
I was moving
and you
are plastic.
Just,
tell him goodbye for me.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
They amputated
Your thighs off my hips.
As far as I'm concerned
They are all surgeons. All of them.
They dismantled us
Each from the other.
As far as I'm concerned
They are all engineers. All of them.
A pity. We were such a good
And loving invention.
An aeroplane made from a man and wife.
Wings and everything.
We hovered a little above the earth.
We even flew a little.
3.5k
the season-change of the vagrant pole-star easily picks up a sip
from the list of ducks of the night-watchers
standing on the bye-lane of the horse-race … by the weight of the confession made
by the spelling-mistakes of a moonlit night to the lotus-leaves … the amputated
tongues of the night-bulbs gradually rolls down to the banyan-pods of the side-characters
the sharp archer of the star-apple moves away some furlongs from the usual
word-stairs and swallowed a whole grammar with fumes by spoon
thus with the number of velocity-poems that the punjabi with boutique prints
can produce… or will produce … gluttonous flower-vase of the magic-painter
can make cool the slaughter-ground … spread to the horizons of the krishnachura
that is deviated from its own track
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:30 PM UTC
Amputated from man
Amputated by man
Implanted to the outside of a wall
A foreigner refused entry into the family
The patern is as such: evrey need I fill
Opens up another two in me
One morning I awoke an amputee
And so it continued the whole life through
"How sincerity made a mad man of you"
If I ever face the mirror that's what I would say to thee
But me and my reflection have gone our seperate ways you see
Half a coffin for the amputee
I know they blame me and say how it's all my fault
Just cos I don't have a hatred for others
Which clearly they have got
Selfish to the core...vanity pride and greed..
Trick a poor stranger for an extra penny
Charge an arm and a leg from an amputee
God has unlocked my heart
But not the padlock on his gate
Heaven may be within reach
But hell is on a plait
So shall I DIE now??..is that what it will take ?
To make happy those so called "near to me"
To beautifie the amputee.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
touch my face and feel my gut
it's knotted up, punctured and twisted
with knives of lovers lost
look at me with shame and forget me
no longer call me by my name, brother
i'm barren from the child i chose not to let be
yet still swollen from the emptiness
stepping on nails, sharp as i pace back and forth
tattered soles and tattered souls
can't overcome the obstacle without proper shoes
end my suffering with a needle or two
let ooze the regretful sorrow that feeds on my sanity
drain the abscess that is my conscience
my conscious mind
it throbs beneath my skin
and whispers secrets from hell, ear to ear
on sunny days
tiny voices and threatening reminders
of crimes not yet repented
committed in fear of solitude
ways to escape unknown, unwanted
negligent to what could be
because the what is distracts me
traps me
i must first love myself
to be loved by you
everyday is a chance to recreate
we know that
our limbs grow longer ingesting opportunity
but hear me when i shout to you from the asphalt
the world unwillingly grows smaller and smaller
and chances are slimmer, slander
ensures
luck be eradicated
because pieces of us
have been
amputated
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
Her legs will be amputated but,
Non-collapsible items like,
Book-shelves and fathers
Can make a space to survive.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
Thunderstorms is that deep anger inside me. Its rather rare and it doesnt happen very often, but when it does, i just get very miserable and take it out on the people around me. I dont mean to hurt them, i just need to let it out. But since its so rare, there's a sort of beauty in that passionate anger.
Volcanoes. My anxiety lays low and simmers steadily for long periods of time and then it gradually rises and the pressure increases until it explodes, and then it just covers every single surrounding aspect of life, temporarily consuming everything else. Then theres a period of silence and nothingness after. Then I begin to rebuild.
Gentle and persistent rain is just that gloom that hangs around, and you can never quite shake. Its not necessarily painful or harmful, its just dreary and more draining than one would expect. It can be dispelled by strong bursts of sunlight.
Wind is for those times when I rapidly shift, going from gentle and lovable on a hot day to a violent gale which pushes back outside influence.
And the ocean is because im constantly exploring myself constantly trying to map out every section of my brain and my body and my limitations but no matter how deep i ever dive, the pressure is too overwhelming, and ill never know everything, and so theres this.. Mysterious aspect to the deeper parts of the ocean, similar to the deeper parts of my brain.
For those times when my emotions cycle rapidly, I am as destructive as a hurricane. The emotions whip around just as fast as any gust of wind, but truly, they are all just as deadly as each other. Nothing can stop the trio of emotions, they just go until they don't have enough energy to fuel themselves any more.
Forgive me if I am a blizzard. From time to time I become scathingly cold. I become icy, unrelenting and unbearable. Getting caught within the blizzard will leave those so unfortunate with a bad case of frostbite which can only be amputated if you hope to survive. The cold will linger, but the regretful sun will try its hardest to warm you back up.
Then in turn, I will become too confident in myself. The sun will get too hot. It will be too sure of itself, and it will scorch and burn.
As a result, the clouds will roll in and humility will take over, masking the arrogance which was so offensive. On a cloudy day, forgive me, I just wish I could be better.
Be wary of earthquakes. Fear will be felt throughout my body, and it will rock me down to the core, and it will rumble through my mind until I tear apart. Beware of falling objects.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
I didn’t hand it over
I neglected to sign a consent
I never said you could yet you did anyway
a cavity within my chest
anatomical rather than cliché
the mask told me it’s a ventricle then I stuttered okay
hollowed inside thick walls
it gathers substance productively
like a strawberry picker but the berries are smashed
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
California gold-rush blues
Got you pretty thirsty
Where's tank girl when you need her
Saliva thick
Lump in throat
Tongue swelling
Neck swollen
Can't breathe
Drowning
Shrinking skin
Hallucinations
Eyelids crack
Tears of blood
Leather-purse face
Amputated lips
Nose withered
Eyes trapped
We're all exported and exploited
Sold sanely cheap
Used how the rich see fit
Dead in one week
Ecosystem crashing
All for their mansions
Filled with rooms they never use
Profit ******
We see oceans through our windows
97 percent
97 percent
3 percent for you and none for us
Little boy is drinking bubbles
But it ain't champagne
It's dead dogs and fetus juice
Dog dogs and abuse
Where are the wetlands
Where are the holy springs
Soon we'll all be Atlantis
Just another lost city
Soon we'll be living
In underground caves
Like cowards
We all want roses in our garden bower
But the best heroes
Might as well be slaves
Global desert
Without rain
Green turns yellow
Here come the earthquakes
****** forest
Rest in peace
They erected cities
In your memory
Cartels and shades of grey
Vivendi, Veolia
Machines with no soul
Privatizing blue gold
In their corporate quads
Woe to WTO
The new colonialism
Coca Cola 7-Up
Sorry but your time is up
Destroy everything you touch
When it's gone
Get up and leave
Destroy another planet
**** and conquer
SLAPPing silly pointless fools
Transporting silly tools
Shooting all the people's people
Got to pull up the roots
Bullets through lace curtains
Has a ring to it
You spineless cruel leaders
With your oil rivers
Well you've made a rival now
World map's changing underground
Alternatives are scarce
Purity is all but lost
Path of least resistance blocked
Metamorphosizing clocks
Circulation down the train
Don't drink the red water
Just pray for rain
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 2:20 AM UTC
The mist was almost ethereal
It floated above the silent waters
But silent was not always
Peaceful, for too touch the mist
Visions,
Pain,
Faded
Limbs, as if the mist had amputated flesh,
But revealed gradually upon exiting
like lacerations it cut
As the mist faded, I could feel but not see,
Bone,
Nerves,
Flesh,
Skin now where mist had evaporated,
"Then the visions"
"Hard to explain"
To count the emotions, then blank,
I was burning, drowning
The torture with in my mind
I saw each one fall, taken by the waters
All that was sunk beneath
All that could have been
Now taken to the deep,
I looked upon the waters where mist
Did not creep,
Revulsion,
Anxiety,
Sorrow
For those beneath, like a tainted mirror
"Trying to break free"
For within each impact a wave
Washed ashore,
It corroded what life it touched
Anger was washing upon the riverbank,
"So many drowning slowly"
A last breath a life time of agony
Slowly those that exhaled the last,
No peace as the mist was there final curse,
Trapped within, souls screaming outwards,
"To touch felt there pain within"
"This river of the lost ones"
Those who thought freedom from
Pain, now suffered a lifetime within,
"For the forgotten river"
"Where the mist never falters"
"Try to drown your sorrows"
"Eternity will be the price paid"
One within the waters,
Eternal torment within the screaming ethereal mists..
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
Kindred Spirit
(Ode an angel)
Your anatomy is an atom in it's purest form
if I am your moon you are my sun,
unequivocally you are my all.
The sole of you feet
drag sand from other beaches
I am the the owner of an amputated
spirit that you mend with broken kisses.
My kindred spirit.
Idealistically,
the being made from the same mold
when I contemplate you visually
leaves no doubt in my soul.
Physically, lyrically,
metaphorically speaking.
The Caribbean reflects on your face
when sun hits it
giving your Cinnamon complexion
a whole new meaning.
My kindred love.
I am humbled to you have you whole
and you are an angel sans the halo
and your smile makes God himself blush.
You are definitely not of this world
and warmth of your body surpasses
that of the Equator
when I am your scorching fire
you are my log.
My kindred soul.
Your heart is bigger than everything that is
and I would gladly spend
the rest of my life in your lips
undoubtedly, mathematically
an infinity will be it.
Because you are the cure
to my incurable illness
everything that I wanted,
my Earth, my Sun, my all
my kindred spirit.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:13 PM UTC
I sat in the third row.
Staring at the red velveteen,
the gleaming black exterior-
of the open casket.
My abuela’s black veil masked her face,
however could not hide her gentle trembling.
Discarded Kleenex crumbled,
on the harsh wooden floors.
That resonated the sound of her heels
as she pace d the floor.
While she recited Hail Mary’s,
and prayed to God.
Abuela no lloran,
She held my hand.
I saw what my mother tried to prevent.
Abulo with bruises on his skin,
similar to the coffee stain on my father’s ivory shirt.
His amputated leg, and still expression
I walked away, I learned my lesson.
*Abula no lloran means Grandma don’t cry in Spanish
-Marissa Navedo
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:46 AM UTC
I can see them
Dancing in their fancy clothes
On the amputated arms and legs
That built their country
An unimaginable pain
Impossible to understand
By someone like me
The rich and prosperous
The westerners and the UN
With the help of media
Publish propaganda which we –
Arrogant and naïve –
Believe
And think our government is honest
Purely because it’s stable
And most won’t even be able
To locate Sierra Leone
Or Rwanda
In the index of an atlas
And this stupidity of
The age of unnecessity
And overflow of emotionless objects
Slowly kills me
And one finger after another
I feel those masters of the third world
Hack and saw them off
But they’ll never get my spirit
And my heart
And these words will resound:
Down with lies and hatred
Down with money and policy
Down with exploitation and death
Now feel my love reach out to you
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
When I flare my nostrils
I sneeze cordite?
When I pout my big lips
Does hot magma erupt?
When my gored orbs roll
Behold liquid blitz come
to judgment?
Fingered nerves claw
At the fragile fabric of sanity
Kamikaze dreams make horrendous
Enterprise at vanishing sunbeam
Clamourous amorous wishes
Purr vapours of invisible kisses
With the gods of fantasy
Clawing up the dark wall of hope
Plastered with ancient ivy of determination
To live and kiss another day
And weave another gooey dream
Or to live another flirtation
With a phantom lover?
Stainless steel roses
For my garden (please!)
For roses are painted red
By blood from wounded dreams
And dust puffed from rusting trust
Because life has been unfaithful
Snogging and ******** with another
LOVER! In my bed.
I have nourished mine love tree
With tears from swollen eyes of hope
And ***** from fat bladder of determination
Red blood from amputated limbs
Of self-sacrifice and selflessness
I have tried.
Undress your mind and jump into bed
My mind often has balled fists against a woe
Than has it kissed many a *****
Blasted Judas! you are the foe
You took away her innocence
There is no red stain on the white linen
Only red lipstick on my pillow
And chewing gum in my hair...
My mind still swoons
To be deflowered
Undress my mind.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
She hates the city
Say street lamps
Are too cold
For marshmallows,
Too far apart
For hammocks
And a little too yellow
For stars.
She loves daisies
Especially when they're alive
And drinks sunshine
Like it's a fireball
Bottle at a bachelor party
She
Has got a body.
Like a Lego fire walk
That I can't help but
Move across
Slowly,
On the parts of her
Past that build us
Omnicolored castles
Of Kings and Queens
And treasure chests
Too small to hold anything
Outside our own imagination
And I,
Her ready loyal Knight
With nothing but
A dull promise
On the edge of my tongue
Laying my rusty faith
At her feet keep
Moving
Like my eyes
Across a line
Across a line
Across a line
That I never
Want to stop
Reading
Her edges
With my fingertips
Like the map
To my home
And her lips
The closest thing
I've got to
A key
But she
Is not the type
That needs a night
To see the stars
And I
Am not the type
To write poems
From fireflies
That I never learned
To let go
'Cause I know my life
Has seen enough jars
Of my amputated parts
To know you don't have
To be broken to be used
To picking up the pieces.
But baby break me.
Like a firefighter
With a family of four
Who knows the risks.
With your arms
'Round my fists
The only chance I've got
Of making it out alive.
So baby hold me
Like a papier mâché
Tugboat from articles
Of my past that I no longer
Want to pull.
And my plaster heart
Heavy,
Ready to be made
Into something new
With my hands full of skipping stones
I no longer have the stomach read
'Cause I don't wanna leave her life
Without being buried somewhere beneath.
But I don't wanna dig too deep
Before I figure out just how to breathe.
So every time she leaves,
I wear my teeth
On her scent
Ribs bent
In the direction
Of her return.
For the first time
In a long while
I've got a fire in me.
And this time,
I'm gonna let it burn.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Amputated human beings, only
gears, nuts and bolts that make up
the machine. Oh woe, who are we
post industrialization
but the first positive proton
to survive its opposite, the first
fiery bursts of fusion
to breathe light into blackness.
The first hydrogen atom
to find its partner, the first
galaxies to swirl and dance
to gravity’s tune. We are
the Earth’s first rain, mud puddle
and microbe. The first furry mammal
and the last dinosaur.
We are the last breath of humanity,
the Sun’s last ray of visible light,
the first collision of galaxies
and the last supernova.
We are the last breath of the universe
the silent second before heat death.
We— not humanity, not Americans, or any nationality, not **** sapiens but we, the consciousness that exists to say the universe knows itself— are the widest rings in a ripple, riding waves set into motion over 13 billion years ago.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 8:44 PM UTC
Suffocate the broken fingers wrapped around umbilical chords
Engorged in egotistical monstrosity of deliverance
Wisdom of deformation in ribcage abortion
Captivity shackled to ***** out the nocturnal twilight of distinguished dawn
Scraped nails across the back of ****** proficiency
Scraped nails found in the brickwork
Fracture the amputated for authentication
Trust no one but the deceased
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:01 AM UTC
You could be my cancer, and for that I don't think I would mind
you seem to find that peculiar so read closely line by line.
My lungs don't matter much because I hardly breathe fresh air,
and maybe my last breath I breathe could be our breath to share.
My skin please without it do not leave
for after all it was you that told me true beauty lies beneath.
Is there cancer of the eyes? If so please have them too,
I would be ever so lucky if the last thing I saw was you.
Cancer in my fingers? As malignant as all that came before
creep into my feeling and let me feel your skin once more.
If there is cancer in my arms I suppose it would be amputated,
but that's okay because then it's yours forever and for that I would be elated.
Sliding through my brain the cancer starts to spread
leaving me worthless lying lifelessly in our once shared bed.
Hardly a terrible fate since I spent my favorite moments there
loving you so wildly as if having an affair.
I could be making this up, but cancer of the heart would only make sense
because you touched my heart one day
and I've loved you ever since.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC