Rings of sleep met my hands, and promised
to wed my lashes, to close. The moon's pupils
acclimated to dusk's orbit, poisonous cycles with
durable antidotes. Starlight circulates death herself,
inaudible, a sobering shadow.
I've lasted by her words progressing,
as I'm no longer here. I faked debt with
her, to try and feel my 'normal' a belted, altered
maker of happiness. They aspired plastic sapphires,
chipping diamonds and bluebells for graves, they took
a dip at my faltered breath- and wanted more, a suicide
note bolted in as tattoos,
"The poetry is beautiful,"
"But I just haven't died yet,"
Lots of people love my poetry. And tons of people say they want my gift, but, I only have this because of all the bad stuff I've been through. You want something I'd give up in a heartbeat- trust me.
All feedback is welcome