"bunker" poems
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned
a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance
soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor
as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale
s i l e n t l y
an acorn fallen — became a mighty Oak
a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow
a neglected child — became mother nature's son
the Silence became
a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope
the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace
... the unabated sounds of silence
become
Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
The all seeing iris imperial city
The swiftest of stylus this side of the ‘sippi
The trippiest spittin’ Promethean hippy
Conspiracy theorist of eeriest verse
The despotic hypnotic black flag bearin’ Hearst
Still immersing myself in a poverty trap
As I grapple with lack of fact check cashing crap
Cryogenically frozen emotion vibes flowin’
From out my funk bunker boombox
Overthrowin’
Your global dominion opinion with ease
Shootin’ breezes with Tirailleurs Senegalese
I’m the kid wicked picket sign paintin’ Tom Sawyer
The ill eagle Taino privilege enjoyer
Still swoopin’ in mean on each **** I make clean
Pick the bones dry of serpentine oil green dreams
Then I bury what’s left of your money machines
With the pharaohs of old’s latest pyramid schemes
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
Down the stairs, my hands a shield
for incoming priority mail,
and trained for the way your body would
hug me closer with every exhale.
Your mother won’t stop calling.
Kind of like the week we spent hopeful
before they sent you away.
Kind of like me just trying to hear your voice,
always searching for something that’s calming.
The windows have
been open since yesterday,
and I heard the bird sing to its sky,
“I love you”
before it started to rain,
darkness swallowed up the sun’s sky
and wilted all our daisy-chains.
Rescued frames surround me,
reserved to tell your stories.
The breeze never fails me,
it carries your scent in flurries.
If I try hard enough, I could feel it
through my hair, and on my lips.
Every night the breeze
brings with it a solar eclipse
that soaks through my skin,
and intertwines with my blood cells,
going straight to the bones that
keep my body from further farewells.
Tomorrow I will build a home with
the words of your silent prayer.
My cracked walls will be painted with
your skin and the scent of your hair.
My new bed will be made with
old t-shirts you always used to wear.
If I could fit your eulogy on this page
I’d make sure to mention the breeze that whirls
through the center of my chest,
and my lungs that faithfully breath the air
that may have once circled your ribcage.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:32 PM UTC
I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *********
with a heart made of silver.
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:00 PM UTC
All but still
Wheat wavering in the distance, shivering in anticipation
Animals hide away, tucked in the safety of hideaways, holes, and orifices
Humans crouch underground, waiting
Hours pass
A lone alarm shouts across the land
"This is an emergency. I repeat, an emergency warning"
So loud that those below, closer to hell than ever before, clutch their ears
For they are ringing from the vibrant sound waves stretching across the fields
A slight change in wind directions
A little bit of motion
Begins the devastation
A lone inverted triangle appears
Seemingly hovering, inches above the ground
Circling its prey, before it gorges itself
Endless cyclic motions, vacuuming everything in its path
Houses, barns, plants fly
Tugged from the attraction to the ground to the sky
Engulfed by the tornado
That winds down a path of destruction
On a whirlwind high
Drunk off of its power
Invoking pain for no reason, except that it can
Land ripped to shreds
Houses taken and tossed miles and miles away
Barns slingshotted across the American countryside
And the deaths
Oh the deaths
Those who thought they could wait it out
Survive again once more
Those who tried to chase the twister
Mesmerized by its hypnotic dance
Those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time
Oblivious to their preventable fate
When the humans emerged
From their underground bunker
They found a land left ruined
Wiped blank of human development
With that they shed tears
Watering the fertile lands
As the tornado wrecked havoc
It brought a rebirth
A chance to start again fresh
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
I lurk on social media.
I post all day and night.
It strokes and stokes my ego
to pick a verbal fight.
When I see inspiring stories
or such videos I watch,
my cruel and vicious comments
will take them down a notch.
Oh feel my power and my wrath,
my insults, mean and shocking,
like "Loser", "Snowflake", ****** ***
(do you tremble at my mocking?)
I hate the world, I loathe myself,
my friends all went away.
Girls say I'm scary and a creep.
My rage grows every day.
My impotence consumes me,
I respond with posts of rage.
Anonymous through GMail
and my fake Facebook page.
My hatred grows as my soul shrinks
and so my spleen I vent.
Safe, deep within my bunker,
down in my mom's basement.
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 9:23 AM UTC
(*My heart is a stone
encased in ice age glacier
tucked away in the nuclear bunker
surrounded by the Great Wall
if the Mongolians can't get to it
what chance have you?
Let's say you do manage to Mission Impossible reach it
Let's say you somehow Ocean's One steal it
Let's say you also The Bank Job keep it
How are you gonna get through that ice?
It's so cold Russians call it the nuclear winter
It's so cold Kobe rubs it before the game-winning shot
It's so cold Lucifer uses it as a cooler
It's so cold Ice Queen is now the Ice Princess*)
Yet
the trembling rosy lips dissolve the very bond
into silly little ice crystals and snowflakes
resonate so passionately with the frequency
of my stoic heartbeat
the dancing electrons revolted against
ionic-bonds and hydrogen-bonds
the frenzied molecules traded their neighbors
for love, traded themselves for furor
traded ice for fire
traded stone for flesh
and you, traded I for me
hanging ever so desperately on your
red trembling lips
consumed mercilessly
like the very last cigarette
knowing the consequence of letting go:
like ash the wind shall carry me away
a thousand burning ambers flying into the night
like the fireflies on their last journey
I shall melt quietly into darkness
reminiscing about a block of ice.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 11:57 PM UTC
3
“Sic transit gloria mundi,”
“How doth the busy bee,”
“Dum vivimus vivamus,”
I stay mine enemy!
Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh “memento mori”
When I am far from thee!
Hurrah for Peter Parley!
Hurrah for Daniel Boone!
Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman
Who first observed the moon!
Peter, put up the sunshine;
Patti, arrange the stars;
Tell Luna, tea is waiting,
And call your brother Mars!
Put down the apple, Adam,
And come away with me,
So shalt thou have a pippin
From off my father’s tree!
I climb the “Hill of Science,”
I “view the landscape o’er;”
Such transcendental prospect,
I ne’er beheld before!
Unto the Legislature
My country bids me go;
I’ll take my india rubbers,
In case the wind should blow!
During my education,
It was announced to me
That gravitation, stumbling,
Fell from an apple tree!
The earth upon an axis
Was once supposed to turn,
By way of a gymnastic
In honor of the sun!
It was the brave Columbus,
A sailing o’er the tide,
Who notified the nations
Of where I would reside!
Mortality is fatal—
Gentility is fine,
Rascality, heroic,
Insolvency, sublime!
Our Fathers being weary,
Laid down on Bunker Hill;
And tho’ full many a morning,
Yet they are sleeping still,—
The trumpet, sir, shall wake them,
In dreams I see them rise,
Each with a solemn musket
A marching to the skies!
A coward will remain, Sir,
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat, and run!
Good bye, Sir, I am going;
My country calleth me;
Allow me, Sir, at parting,
To wipe my weeping e’e.
In token of our friendship
Accept this “Bonnie Doon,”
And when the hand that plucked it
Hath passed beyond the moon,
The memory of my ashes
Will consolation be;
Then, farewell, Tuscarora,
And farewell, Sir, to thee!
2.6k
A call on the white telephone awakens the room, disturbing the crystal liqueur bottles I will never drink from. She sweeps in from the balcony where she was wistfully overseeing-
All the dogs have fled. On some nights though, I see them in some corner or some alley mouth, a pair of howitzer eyes lying in the bunker of a ruined doorway. Nobody told them it was over.
And in the studios you never see the outdoors, never see that grainy drunken view of the streets, just the pristine suites, a hint of sun and the telephone, the white telephone.
Level the rest I say. Sink and crumble any who were passed over. Cut the power lines, burn the last scraps of food and cut a perfect hole in every cinema screen. Ruins are what we do best.
It didn't happen.
It did.
But it didn't happen.
But it did.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.
We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.
Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.
The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.
After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.
At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.
We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.
If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.
December, 2006
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
i.
Soon, verily soon
Shalt the seven trumpet's sound;
Awakest from slumber mine land
And world,
Thy peace that thou seeketh
In Christ only
Shalt be found.
ii.
Soon, verily soon
Shalt the Antichrist make his mark;
The moon to turneth blood
The sea's boiling with dust.
A new order to adjust,
O' man, in whom doth thou trust?
iii.
Soon, verily soon
Shalt rich men hide
In room's; Bunker's to
Bomb's, children taken
From mom's, rapture;
Cometh up hither for
Few.
iv.
Soon, verily soon
Shalt the earth moan
In heat; a false peace
Deal for Israel and the
False man whom many
Wilt calleth king, the
Anti-christ to maketh a
Sting, with the united
Nation's as it's front.
v.
Soon, verily soon
Shalt prohecies of
Old, be turned into gold,
From it's verity and truth.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prophetic poetry
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Good for visiting hospitals or charitable work. Take some time to attend to your health.
Surely I will be disquieted
by the hospital, that body zone--
bodies wrapped in elastic bands,
bodies cased in wood or used like telephones,
bodies crucified up onto their crutches,
bodies wearing rubber bags between their legs,
bodies vomiting up their juice like detergent, Here in this house
there are other bodies.
Whenever I see a six-year-old
swimming in our aqua pool
a voice inside me says what can't be told...
Ha, someday you'll be old and withered
and tubes will be in your nose
drinking up your dinner.
Someday you'll go backward. You'll close
up like a shoebox and you'll be cursed
as you push into death feet first.
Here in the hospital, I say,
that is not my body, not my body.
I am not here for the doctors
to read like a recipe.
No. I am a daisy girl
blowing in the wind like a piece of sun.
On ward 7 there are daisies, all butter and pearl
but beside a blind man who can only
eat up the petals and count to ten.
The nurses skip rope around him and shiver
as his eyes wiggle like mercury and then
they dance from patient to patient to patient
throwing up little paper medicine cups and playing
catch with vials of dope as they wait for new accidents.
Bodies made of synthetics. Bodies swaddled like dolls
whom I visit and cajole and all they do is hum
like computers doing up our taxes, dollar by dollar.
Each body is in its bunker. The surgeon applies his gum.
Each body is fitted quickly into its ice-cream pack
and then stitched up again for the long voyage
back.
2.1k
Deaths Of 2013
My third year doing this.
Paul Walker, Texas ranger,
driving fast leads to danger.
Matt Osbourne was Doink The Clown,
Paul Bearer always wore a frown.
Dennis Farina and James Gandolfini,
always played a mobster meany.
Peter O'Toole, famous actor,
Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
President Nelson Mandela,
Dennis Burkley, was a famous fat actor fella.
Lou Reed, is now on the wild side,
took all the colored girls for a ride.
Conrad Bain and Bonnie Franklin,
tv actors who had white skin.
Paul Blair and Stan The Man,
playing baseball, when they can.
Marcia Wallace and Lisa Robin Kelly,
both had ***** that bounced like jelly.
Tom Clancy wrote famous books,
not much on having good looks.
Cory Montieth and Patti Page,
one died young, other of old age.
Jean Stapleton, was Edith Bunker,
Archie always put her in the dumper.
Pat Summerall and Deacon Jones,
played football and broke some bones.
Dr. Joyce Brothers and Pauline Phillips,
they both gave good and bad tips.
Ray Manzarek, from The Doors,
Jeff Hanneman knew all Slayers chords.
Chrissy Amphlett, liked to touch herself,
Caleb Moore's trophies are on his shelf.
Mindy McCready and George Jones,
both hit those country tones.
Chris Kelly from Kris Kross,
Ed Koch is a New York loss.
David Frost and Roger Ebert,
always had words to insert.
Anneitte Funicello from Mickey Mouse Club,
Eydie Gorme almost got a snub.
Jonathan Winters, was very funny,
to come from Mork's egg, made him money.
If you don't know who these people are,
look them up, internet not very far.
For the ones that I missed,
please don't get to ******
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
She was a child wild
wearing a white dress,
galloping through fields of unrest,
inspiring anxious warheads,
for a hot second.
Off to the next.
She was
anxious like a feather
caught in a breeze,
far from that child
that minded none
the weeds.
Backhand compliments
more potent than
misogynic critiques.
She was Marilyn Monroe.
Where was Norma Jean?
Living in a man's dream,
pinned up in a
concrete bunker,
a porcelain poster
tearing each time
she wasn't taken seriously,
or spent nights
alone aside a dusty phone,
with no home but
Norma Jean,
Marilyn's martyr
long at peace.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
We'd play
Dungeons and Dragons
for hours
in the bunker at night.
We all had special powers.
Some of them worked,
some didn't.
I miss those guys.
I wore a cloak of invisibility
so I could
come
back home
to write about it.
(I Thank God,
my cloak
& my lucky stars.)
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
the brain and mind are not the same thing.
a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.
it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.
the mind has no such manuals.
it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.
it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.
it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.
the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;
hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.
away from people who haven’t quite learned,
that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 2:37 AM UTC
Warmth is a jumper,
a knitted, sewn and cross stitched bunker
in which we exist and sweat in, let out sighs of
I am okay or I'm always this upset,
and behind those patterns we see the world
through a window the size of a pea, an out-of-focus
key hole where we can watch and wait
and be warm in the thought that
we've no work tomorrow.
Warmth is a blanket on a bed,
a mass produced widespread piece of material
in which we can dive under and have serial sleeps
that carry on into the evening;
and the light coming in through the wide window
hits the Hiroshima shadow-damp on the side wall
making it dance with the commuting-home-traffic.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Let's traverse the universe together.
I'll navigate the hot air balloon
And you'll mark a trail,
dotted with echoing wonder and laughter
and cookie crumbs and popcorn kernels.
Let's traverse the universe together.
We can fly paper airplanes to all our friends
and only communicate through bottled messages
and shooting stars with wishes attached.
Let's traverse the universe together.
you can lean on me when you need to, and
you'll carry me when i trip on my laces
People will point and whisper that we're time travelers,
or just gone loony.
But we're just the good amount of sane-
80% crazy, 10% sense, and
10% who cares?- As long as we're together.
We'll eat drippy summer popsicles together-
the kind that're 50 cents and you need a friend to eat with.
We'll surf rooftops to look like we're badass- and we'll trip and add to the
piles of scrapes and memories.
We'll build a secret bunker-
password and secret-code included
with more canned food than we need, just in case zombies come after us.
We'll catch frogs and try to make then fight-
but they'll just hop away, back into the pond
And we'll follow suit and go experience the world with them.
It's too short to ask why,
let's just do, instead.
Let's traverse the universe
and write odes to each other, and get drunk
off of our own poetic justice.
Just you and me.
Cherry pits and broken fragments
of sticks that once served as swords
will litter the roads we once trod.
People will say:
the world is too much for us to handle.
Well they're wrong,
we're too much for the world to handle.
Let's traverse the universe together.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
At the back
of the coal wharf
you and Fay
picked up coal pieces
that fell through
the iron railings
and put them
in an old bag from home
Fay looked
at her blackened fingers
and said
if my daddy sees
these fingers
and finds out
what I’ve been doing
he’ll spank me
for sure
you gazed at her
beside you
and said
you can wash your hands
at my place
she looked around
at the bombsite behind you
the evening sun
slowly going down
behind the railway bridge
and nearby buildings
what if someone sees you
she asked
picking up these pieces?
no one worries about this
all the kids do it
you replied
my daddy says
it is evil to steal
she said
you put a black piece
of coal in the bag
and lifted it
to feel the weight
that’s enough
you said
too much
and I won’t be able
to carry it
Fay stood up
and looked around
at the darkening sky
you held the bag
in one hand
and scanned
the area around you
let’s go
you said
and so you both
walked away
from the coal wharf
into Meadow Row
by the public house
where piano music played
and down towards
the flats
where you lived
and after climbing
the concrete stairs
to your landing
you opened the door
and put the bag
by the indoor
coal bunker
and showed Fay
where to wash her hands
turning on
the cold water tap
you both washed
your hands
with the red
Life Buoy soap
her hands near yours
her wet flesh
touching yours
the black water
running away
and another adventure
and another day.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
To pain I am no stranger
The first name basis is strange for sure
Caught up in an above the boards love affair
Like day to day warfare
It's fare if everyone fights fare
Otherwise it's life as a sucker in a bunker
Still not safe from the vulture culture
Fueling an anger that stirs the rage monster
Who then in turn wakes the violence that likes to linger
One v one they're barley a threat to boil over
The one benefit found for getting older
They can be handled in short order
But together they can alter a future
I acknowledge the fact it's part of my character
And work to recognize each trigger better
Enabling myself to be my own mediator
So I can step in-between me and myself quicker
It was all just, once again, too little too late,
I missed the transition from raging river
To city sewer
Instead of shooting a flare in the air I dropped anchor in danger
The last bridge I let smolder after traversing over
Was the only bridge out of my hell,
A sobering thing to remember only after realizing there was never going to be a true winner
©2024
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 4:25 PM UTC
This is killing me.
You are killing me.
You sick little ****
I'm not going to answer your calls.
It is making me feel like I'm in a baracade.
And you have opened fire.
You're trying to luer me out
With ****** voicemails
"Baby I wanna **** you".
"I love it when you scream no".
"Make me a sandwhich doll face".
"Let me **** you to death".
I will rip out my own heart before I answer.
Before I leave my bunker.
**** off you sadist pig.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Soldier,
I won't be your red dot,
my body the coordinates
you hit or miss.
What if you say no?
What if you say yes?
What if I could care less?
I won't hide me behind uncertainty to
compliments camouflaged
as criteria
I must fail or pass
this ****** up social game,
no one seems to change the rules.
So I'll hide in my bunker cynically.
You might say I have PTSD
because too many bullets skimmed me.
But you are just another ******
most comfortable with late nights
and green lights,
killing souls of girls
who just want to run home
and sleep alone,
not held in your hands,
nor held in your eyes,
and certainly
not scaled from 1 to 10.
You're violent.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
I woke up today at the border of the morning, in that old war bunker, crowded with boxes and medical supplies, missing the asphalt and the tree line
Half dead and unaware, in this undead pharmacy, taking fragments from the shelves
And who's really gonna stop me if there is no one around?
Wasted all of my prayers on all of the obvious things
days spent walking miles to the pawn shop, or the futility of looking for what to take with me
My visions of thin skin are poking at their veins, of which I'm having memories of in unrelenting fashion
and though I'm only 23 my heart feels like a chasm
of mayflower proportion
I think to write you a letter, think fast to find a pencil, but there never is one, so I crumble up the paper
I think to write you a letter, but there never is one
But it'd be cruel not to leave one
So with all the strength I can muster, with the most minimal of treasures that haunt this long abandoned shelter,
I am hardly able to form words, let alone sentences
The crumbled paper giving under my childlike formed fist
And I see my face in Judy Garland's, in the glass, my reflection in a framed picture
my Judy
The last letter
Spilling out from my lips
I am not beautiful yet
I am ugly to the very core
but I will rearrange my bones, if not for this, then for that framed picture
and what it reflected
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 12:56 PM UTC