"bloodstains" poems
I hear stories of an ancient land so pure.
I see photographs of bluer than blue skies
over a lake of molten gold.
I drink kahwa flavoured with almond and saffron
and add honey, sweetened by bees from the valley,
my hips swaying in a crewel work on wool skirt.
I hear songs of freedom, I know people who fled.
The muezzin prays for peace over bloodstains and tears
while children still play under walnut trees.
Clouds gather to pray at Shankaracharya Temple
on a mountain dipping its toes into water
while empty shikaras speak of visiting ghosts.
Mothers whose eyes never tire, looking over the sunset
for long lost sons; wives who still lay out their husband’s
slippers on a carpet with frayed edges.
Postmen deliver letters to addresses long abandoned;
a generation of elders, eyes of agate, gnarled fingers, brew tea
surrounded by memories of children killed, daughters *****
I write for all people who live in war.
I write for the age of innocence to return.
I write for soft rain to wash away sin.
I write for the return to reason.
I write for peace to flutter gently through groves
of apricot, almond, apple and walnut.
Feel the pain. Hear the refrain. Smell the emptiness.
This is now. This is now. This is not in the pages
of a fading history text. This is now. This is now.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
I am Christian. I believe in the
Trinity of the Holy God, The Son, and The Spirit,
I believe that Jesus is the Son of God and the savior of mankind
I own more than three Bibles
I teach Sunday School every week and
I pray every night.
I am Christian,
And as such I
Hate queer....
Phobia. I can not stand intolerance
And I cry at hatred,
Blood running in the streets,
Fear running in veins,
Running away from the truth.
I am Christian, yet
There are bloodstains in my Bible
And the prayers on my lips
Are for forgiveness for who I am.
The entire story of ***** is
Crossed out, blacked out angrily
In the dead of night
In all 4 versions,
Leviticus is blurred,
Wrinkled with my tears,
Soaked with my pain.
I am Christian
And I am not homophobic.
I know my church won't recognize
Non cis-het marriages,
Leaving entire worlds of rainbows in the dark
The higher-ups insist
Weddings are white, shiny, husband-and-wife, happily-ever-after affairs
That shove me and my friends, my family, my lovers,
Into closets of heavenly wrath and
Fire and brimstone sermons,
Locked into personal hells of shame
And confusion.
I am Christian
And I am not straight.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He loves me because I try not to hate.
So to the homophobic Christians, I ask:
Who is your God?
Who is your God that supposedly condemns people He has created in his own image?
Your rainbow picket signs are nothing but a cruel mockery of a covenant
Not truly shared by you.
Your tongues are no better than the viper's who called Adam and Eve to sin,
You are the vipers of my world.
Do you think you avoid judgement
When trans teens are killed
By the bullets you spit with your words?
Who is your God,
That tells you to picket the funerals
Of those you hate?
Who is your God,
That refuses to let you open your heart to differentness?
I am Christian,
And I don't need your permission to
Love my God.
Take my scars and tear-stained Bibles,
Listen to my fervent prayers,
Watch my lips tremble when
I listen to my pastor.
I don't need your permission
To love who I want,
In fact I don't want it.
Take my midnight screaming and fear of coming out,
Listen to my frantic pleading for a hand to hold,
Watch my eyes linger on her chest.
I am Christian.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He hates you who refuse to love
While you carry His name, if
Not his blessing.
So I ask again
Who is your God?
Because mine loves all of me,
All 5'6" of queer pride.
Who is your God?
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
You look me in the eyes and spit,
And I kick dust on the wet spot on the ground.
This is how we are, a conversation; you never cared to call me something like my name.
I never cared to see you in any way but under my boot with blood on your teeth.
There is no moon above us, even when the sun’s gone to hide at the nearest bar.
This is not a war that can be won with pickets and strikes.
The only way to end the battle
Is that someone has to die.
A standoff only ends when one is left standing, it’s the rules,
but you never did care for rules, and breaking is easier than bending.
You never apologize and I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth.
The sun’s gone to hide at the local bar and it drinks whiskey shots like water.
It has seen us fight.
The moon doesn’t want to come out, stays tucked safe in its bed.
It has heard stories.
Only the stars act as referee, calling out which one of us died better.
It’s all an act, a ******* contest, and you sure are good at wetting the ground.
I’m better at covering up where the bloodstains were,
stain chicken feathers red as the sunset, Please, I ask you,
Let him win one last time.
The hourglass broke, the sand mixing with the red clay,
And you claim to know that his time is up.
I claim to know that you’re a lying son of a ***** who takes what isn’t his.
And you claim that I’m just a child,
but children don’t know why their knuckles are
bleeding
and children don’t get why their jaws hurt
and children only bleed when summer is restless
and children never pull real guns anyway.
You brought a knife to a gunfight,
a gun to face the firing squad, a one child firing squad,
knees stuck together with blood and chicken feathers.
Please, you ask me,
Let me win one last time.
And I learn that breaking is easier than bending;
And I learn how my name sounds on your lips.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
You keep telling me you care,
when I ask you to listen you don´t even dare.
Everyone says pain is not the way,
but there is no reason to stay.
No one ever sticks around,
each friendship leaves me feeling like a clown.
I don´t trust people anymore,
they left me breathless on the floor.
Bloodstains covering my clothes,
you think this is the life I chose.
Still convinced that you care?,
or are you leaving me there?.
Hope you find the final note I left behind,
reading it should ease your mind.
I don´t expect you to understand,
to answer your question, yes, this was planned.
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 2:34 PM UTC
Red birds flew into my window every day for years, especially during Spring
and I asked my mother
what they were called.
“Cardinals,” she said,
“but I think they’re called to you,
I think—
I think they are for you.”
“Mom, I’ll give that one a name.”
And I did.
——-
I still see cardinals.
The red shocks me,
like a bloodstain in a new house.
——-
When my father almost died,
I was not worried and I did not ask many questions,
only saw his body in the bed, a green-blue-yellow-black mess,
a broken-bone nest,
with sticky pads stuck to his skin, sending electricity to his nerves, lest
they forget themselves.
——-
He had the car turned into a cube, and it is somewhere now,
the cage collapsed,
the rust blooming inside of itself.
The day my father chose to drive into a wall,
going somewhere from 100 to 200 miles an hour (I never asked him), they dubbed him Rocketman.
He flew.
The car toppled and twisted and regurgitated what it could;
it was an illness,
and it could have killed us.
My father is okay.
——-
My father went to an air show months ago to see how those streak clouds are made by planes,
and there was an accident
and he saw peoples’ bodies lying and dying.
He told my mother how he saw hands separate from their owners.
He has not told me these things.
——-
The cardinals have started to scare my father.
He sees them too
like bloodstains in a new house.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:
1.
he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window
2.
can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?
3.
for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this
4.
“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water
5.
yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?
6.
and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float
7.
as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
The truth of it is-
he's not going to fix you
she's not going to make you forget
the way your father would hit you
He is not going to make your collarbones sprout roses
He will not make you forget how to need
The truth of it is-
She is not a savior
She is not able to fight off the demons in your dreams
He will not make you forget the way your mother left
The bloodstains in the bathtub will still be there
The truth of it is-
This is your life
This is not a movie
No one is going to swoop in and save you
You will have to grow your own wings if you want to fly away
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
let's make a deal.
uncap the bottle,
discover my greatest work-
a soliloquy on sentience,
performed to an empty room.
the walls
are bleeding lead poisoning again
and i
am leaving logic behind.
the air is crisp on my wretched skin
and as the world dies
its aching breath helps me
to finally feel alive.
i am pure white.
let me rise, enlightened.
as i float, breathless,
i can feel, finally,
the weight of my bones.
make me into a sparrow,
feast upon my marrow,
so i can become porous-
but leave my hollow mind whole.
idolize me.
spin my disease into pure beauty.
a stone-cold rose
grounds the coffin for my dreams,
liberating me from responsibility.
awaken me.
strip my heavy corpse of its wings,
eviscerate the breath from my lungs
cease my tangibility
oh glory,
build me up
strip me down
to my knuckles and teeth,
to the weathered bone.
remove the bloodstains from my home.
if i bleed now
it will be beautiful
when i fall, i
will glorify the cement, decorate it
with my shining insides
when i come down
it will be stunning
it will be dreadful
and i will be resplendent
-but the delivery
won't change the content
candy wrapping
can't cover up the stench of death-
i have given up
on purging the necrosis from my tissue
i have found
this tantalizing muse once again, and
once more i
will let her put cigarettes out
on my sorry skin.
i've grown to love the smell,
that acrid poison
it almost covers up the scars
she leaves-
if i can make dying sound beautiful
then to hell
with us all
if you could romanticise suicide
you'd be rotting
too
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
1. I was outside shoveling horse **** considering the more **** I piled up, the less you'd deal with when you came home.
2. I woke up every night at 2, unfamiliar to having the bed all to myself, curled around a pillow like a buoy far from shore, sea sick in the choppy water, my vision reduced to abstract smudges. I focused on what must have been your silhouette as I gulped cups of salty water half a mile into the ocean, exhausted and drowning.
3. Medicinal marijuana alleviates anxiety. I won't swear on depression, I believe, there are four types of depression. Blue dreams are most desirable, every day for 8 months.
4. You've probably seen this desktop orb that captures electrical currents, so when you touch it with your fingers violet bolts ignite against your glass fingerprint. With this light, 2 a.m. I scoop the sandman's hash into my pipe so i can get some rest from my past who caught up to me a few days ago.
5. Dreamer. Heartbreaker. Deep thinker. No harm has come -- to--- you.
6. When it gets dark again, run baby run. Spin around with my eyes on his, reveal the wreck behind my lids, at the thought of losing him, not to another woman, but to Fate. Hold him tight. Make love like you mean it, not to **** but to tie two hearts together as they bleed. It's bloodstains on the white sheets, two people loved here like death sat by the dinner table, waiting on his appetizer.
7. The cruel morning illuminates his naked body as he slept. I cried because I didn't know if dreamed of pleasing me. Why did I let things I couldn't control worry me?
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
It's real, this is very real.
This is not your haunted mansion at the amusement park.
This is not the shadows you see under your bed.
This is very real, the voice in my head.
And it's telling me about the bloodstains
Left on silken sheets,
not the blood of a ****** but the blood of a corpse.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
moaning mournfully
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
The heaviness on my chest,
the strangled breaths stinking of wafting toxicity,
the bloodstains on my hands
from a ****
My mind is whirling,
and I wonder
if this is it
if this is insanity distorted past reality
if I am truly lost in this labyrinth of twisted smiles and white lies
if I have finally finally turned myself into a monster.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:33 AM UTC
A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
Above the dried bloodstains;
Its wings bat away toxic breaths
Perverse and untamed.
A butterfly flutters through the streetz—
Great beauty of little worth.
Through tear gas, dodging bullets
With wings like the Fellbeasts of Middle-earth.
A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
No smile, no glance, no words to speak.
It wipes away a child's fresh tear
As it passes by its cheek.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Honey-sweet blasphemy, touch like ****** poetry
Scratches, bites and ecstasy - look at what you do to me!
Sweet Devil, my love
Sweet Devil above
Sweet Devil below, come unto me
Sweet Devil , oh my
Sweet Devil, so fine
Sweet Devil, are you in love with me?
Feline, non-divine, I love the way I make you shine!
Kiss me briskly, you frisky little ***** of mine!
Sweet Devil my love
Sweet Devil above
Sweet Devil below, come unto me
Sweet Devil , oh my
Sweet Devil, so fine
Sweet Devil, are you in love with me?
Bloodstains on my bedsheets
Clawmarks in my back
You're a savage - I'm a beast
Have you ever been ****** like that?
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Cold steel chains
Constricting pain
Burning sensations
Sanity slain
Heavy weight
Against my skin
Unforgiving
Relentless head-spin
Dry bloodstains
A malicious mark
Guilty as charged
Repeat, restart
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
A white silk dress
Like snow cascading
To the dusty ground.
A needle ******
The pale arms of
Sleeping Beauty's twin;
Drops of blood
Raining down to land
On her tear-soaked
Satin skirts.
She falls, deep
Into a forever
Enchanting rest from which
She will never wake,
Laid to die in a
Pristine, ****** gown
With the bloodstains
Reflected in the
Casket lining
From her white silk
Dress.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
The cold wind touched my skin and my body trembled
As you removed the last piece of my clothing
You also removed my eyeglasses and asked
"Can you see me?"
I slowly nod even everything was a blur
The curve in your lips says that you smiled upon seeing me naked
You started kissing me
And I stand still because it was my first kiss
and I don't know how to respond
Kissing. Deeper. Harder
I found myself craving for more
Faster. Stop. Breath
You asked me to close my eyes
But I didn't (because everything is blur without my eyeglasses)
Instead I put my feet on your waist
Then hugged you tightly
Mainly for support and to make sure I will not fall
Slowly our body collided
It was your trap, a sweet pitfall
Your hands all over me
touching every part of me
You stopped on my *******
and started fondling
one more caress and I totally fall
in your sinful trap
**** Lick. Mash
And I can't make you stop
No, I don't want you to stop
So wrong yet feels so good..
My body starts to shake
As you put your hands in between
Fingers in and out
I'm losing my mind
Fingers in and out
Faster. Breathless
Fingers in and out
Exploring every part of me
Which I don't let anybody see
I'm in ecstasy
Pain and pleasure
never felt this way before
Panting. Wanting
You drop to your knees
and position your head in between
You bury your face
and started to taste
Lick. Lick. Lick
You said I taste like heaven
So I was in heaven
Lick. Lick. Lick
Pain and pleasure
never felt this way before
But you're not yet done
And I don't want you to be done
You asked me again
"Can you see me?"
Again, I nod even you're just a shape in my vision
You lay me down
"wider"
I just stare into vagueness
Then I felt it
You pushed inside me
Deeper.
Pain and pleasure
Pain and pleasure
I'm losing control
With every ****** I can feel you all over me
As you bury yourself inside me
you also touch my heart
In and out. Harder. Deeper
Breathless. Wanting. Moaning
The world is spinning
"Can you see me?"
I finally answered
"No, but it's not important
as long as I feel you near me is enough"
I was staring at the shadow of him as I said the words
It was dark, only heartbeats and ****
I'm sure you touched my heart
But you said it's just my body
that's pain and pleasure, I guess
I thought you touched my heart
but as you said, you just touched my body
*I made love to you, but you just f_cked me
I thought it was love
Pleasure is all you see*
The morning comes
Knowing you won't be beside me
But still I looked around
To make sure that what happened was real
Yes, it is indeed real, you were real
For you left marks
crumpled bed sheet
red marks on my skin
and bloodstains..
I wore my eyeglasses
my vision becomes clear
But no specs can clear what happened
under the moonlight
*Innocence gone
Pain and pleasure
The euphoria of last night..*
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
To start your mornings with
blood on your hands
smearing across pages
is
incriminating
and inspiring
And you must know
if you were to slice open
my veins would also
spill black fountain ink
If you were to sever my tongue
my hands would speak
for me
Go ahead and gouge my eyes
I can still see
And when I die I desire
to be cut as a cadaver
All the words visible
under paper-white skin
so they will know, too.
I do not aspire to be a skeleton
with brittle bones
I want blood
to pour with every pinprick
of a pilot pen pressed
on a page
But blood makes people squirm
Blood makes people gag
so I intend to
leave this world
with a crime scene behind me.
Let them shake and shudder
for they know not
the life they’ve lost
They live in fear of papercuts
and I carve myself open
again and again
And I will continue to
until I bleed out
and my ink dries up
If it sounds violent it’s
because it has to be
The world could use a
few more bloodstains
Makes it more uncomfortable
Makes it more interesting.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
Wow, the weather sure is cold,
Days are short, the wind is bold.
The season isn't a favorite for sure,
Most in the cold, aren't begging for more.
This testament to the winter, is short and is sweet,
Its brutal cold, upon you does beat.
Begs for spring, and longer days,
And new found fun in different ways.
But back to winter, now let's explore,
Its wondrous beauty, many do adore,
The frosty nights, a blanket of snow,
Untouched and ****** a skiing we can go!
Take the kids to the local park,
Sleigh ride with them, a youthful spark,
May be rekindled, inside your soul,
This surely is fun, never is it droll.
Build a snowman, with coal and pipe,
He may come alive, frosty isn't just hype.
The alive that he comes, is not in the snow,
But in the hearts of the ones that help make him grow.
Spending time with the family, this bonding is good,
Feeling alive and well, with your family you should,
The wondrous winter, has the holiest of days,
A time to be kind, and have gentler ways.
The birth of the savior, the greatest of men,
His spirit reborn, and we all know when,
This holiday comes, its time be kind,
Good deeds and good thoughts, cover your mind.
The new year comes in winter, a time to start new,
Cast aside bad habits, and with them your through.
Good cheer and good times, and drinking some wine,
Kissing and hugging, and playing Auld Lang Syne.
Presidents day is a time to give thanks,
Lincoln and the north, and the fighting yanks,
Put an end to slavery, blacks free as whites,
Another century passed to gain civil rights.
Praise to Washington, the first to lead,
Our country from Britain, his troops had freed,
The people of the Colonies, America was born,
Plains full of plenty, many acres of corn.
Valentines day, the time for romance,
Put yourself out there, ask a girl to a dance!
The celebration turns history around,
Originally on this day, many bodies were found,
Dead in a garage, in the Chicago town,
The pictures are gruesome, bloodstains on the ground.
These are the times in winters' cold,
That have special meaning, and memories they hold.
Look kindly on winter, its end will bring,
A time of rebirth, known as the spring.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
it seems too contrite
to think that it is a revelation
that life can change in a single instant
like the fraction of a second
the blink of an eye
when the world goes dark and
you forget that you can
actually see
but i get stuck there
knocked out of this reality
and thrown headlong
onto the asphalt that
doesn't give way for
my crystalline bones and
tear-stained face
how can this not be real
when the pain is inescapable
taking up residence
in each secret crevice of
my war-torn self
and i can't run
with these compound fractures
ivory bone peeking through
my crimson stained skin
my spilt blood somehow
reabsorbing into my pores
trying to return home
but those cells are outlaws
they've been expelled
exiled and it feels like
they are now more a part of
the obsidian ground around me
where i've lost myself
where no one can reach me
i'm behind a mirror
hidden in a plume of smoke
and my agony
my suffering cannot be touched
or sublimated into ether
where i can die
and all the world will note
is the lack of my return
to the reality of
the world around them
so concrete they would
never imagine the
tenuous connection that we share
a fishing line that
i rely on
that i wrap around my fist
until it cuts to the bone
and i am certain that
it cannot be pulled away
but i lose it
i grasp desperately
to pull it back into the
wounds where it
fits like that's where it was
created to inhabit
and when i'm empty
when i'm not bleeding
from self-inflicted
gunshot wounds
and razor slices that
never seem to fall
deep enough
to remind me that i'm
still alive
to spread bloodstains
and confirm the
strange world around me
is actually reality
and that i am a part of it
because most of the time
i feel like an interloper
an alien species
and integration
is impossible.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Roses are dead
Violets are few
Sugar is bland
Forgiveness is, too.
Bloodstains are red
Bruises are blue
Poison is sweet
Revenge is, too. <3
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Death waits beyond the gates and stuck on pikes or up on spikes,the heads of malefactors.
Eyes ****** out by greedy beaks and tongues torn by the laughing winds,ears that hear no rivers flow or travellers as they go to and fro across the bridge.
Skulduggery and thuggery hand in hand the outlaw land across the Thames,tarts and carts and herring bones and fish wives heading off to homes beyond the liberty,where lawlessness is more or less the way things are,
and a penny a *** of gin is a lot but for twopence you get one free,
the ribald are eyeballed and marked as fair game and as the fayre starts up on the ice,
everyone gets a slice of the quince as the fey boys mince down on mincing lane and head to the borough to join in the game.
London by nature and London by name and someone to scrub the bloodstains from the hands of those who hang loose in the
outlaw lands.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC