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have words but no sense
tense
stressed as a consequence
useless
take a

breath

breath

breath

try again in sec
count to ten
reflect
.
.
.
procrastinate instead
spend the day in bed
.
.
.
reset
Stefan Petersen Sep 2014
I remember seeing you
Not for the first time
Hopefully not the last
But with a “beep beep” you were already gone
Left little more than a cloudy statue
Where you used to be
I turned coughing and wheezing
Around your smoky expression
Only to see a series of foot prints
Not away from
Me
but certainly not towards me
While you've been gone
ALL I've heard from you
is of the numerous other ferocious beasts
you've been
running
from
Well i’m no Wile-E
but seems to me
From the start
There must not have been that strong of a tie
to begin with.
and although I do look it
I’m NOT a coyote
and since we’re here
From the start
you were not that tastiest of prey
in every sense of it
So be off with you
While I practice
Autocannibalism
grace Jan 2015
when did refrigerator magnet words go so wrong? this is not last chance saving this is a parody of myself
what were once declarations of love have morphed into razor edged lines and sharp angles that catch along the back of my throat
i choke them out but they mutate into something much more than I have anticipated, these are not the smooth sing-song lyrics you fell in love with, these are death sentences and suicide letters and homicidal tendencies
this is crooked iron nails and bitterly spat broken teeth and torn pages from notebooks, this is not beautiful, it is teasing the very edge of the cliff with bare feet
a white flag rubbed in mud and creased with dried blood is not surrender, whether raised or crushed under the heels of tearing boots you’ve come to love.
you don’t hate poetry, you say you do. you flinch when it touches you, scalding on your skin, leaving blisters up your sides.
you don’t hate poetry, you get so much pleasure from picking at the wounds it inflicts.
is this a desperate hunger, a strictly guarded act of autocannibalism,
preying on late night words (“i honestly hate her and i want to forget” oh, drink your sorrows away honey, you have a hell of a storm coming for you)
no one can tell me the facts, not anymore, not through voicemails smelling of cigarette smoke or misspelled texts declaring undying love,
these words leave fragile skin with claw marks, innocent blush with burns
this is danger, this is terrorism (an act on whom? is it terrorism if one is after themself?)
honey, you know it’s the stress talking, the best medicine is to let it bleed until you’re numb

— The End —