"freshly" poems
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom
For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.
Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.
We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.
Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.
Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.
But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,
*The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath*
Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.
Why just men?
I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know. end.<nml>
Jan 6, 2013
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
I followed my dear friends to the edge of a cliff
and was greeted by a peculiar thing.
There, standing on the edge of the earth
was a swing set waiting just for me.
Her thick black seat and strong metal arms
cradled me while together we flew
into the starry night canvas, sprawling
dark blue, except for a splatter of twinkling
firefly-speckles, from the cityscape
to the moon.
Each time she lifted me I felt closer
to the heavens. I raised my chin
and let the gentle kiss of raindrops
wash away my sins, cleansing
and revitalizing my body like a baptism.
I’ll never forget the smell of the rain
on the freshly-sprouted grass, with dew drops
made from the breath of my friends
hanging delicately in the sweet air
like glass beads strung on a wire
while the crisp wind carried me higher and higher
and the most brilliant masterpiece ever created
was painted across the entire night sky.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
Nothing can compare to the feeling of
caressing just blossomed sunflowers.
They reflect their warm gaze upon my cold,
freckled cheeks while their golden hue
searches onward for other souls to bless.
Nothing can compare. Except for you.
They remind me of you and your warm gaze
that always seems to settle upon my eyes.
They remind me of your hands and how they
feel when they’re pressed against my face.
And how our faces press against each other’s while
our lips are safely locked together.
No feeling can compare to freshly blossomed sunflowers.
Except for the feeling I get when I’m with you.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
Let me pretend our life is normal
there's no illness here
as I lay beneath the covers
With you
My dear
Under the covers
on a chilled mornings day
Outside beyond our window
children are at play
Freshly brewed coffee
drifting in on the air
As we lay
beneath the covers
without a care
Spring flowers bloom
their perfume
dancing in on the breeze
Hear the Kookaburras laughing
outside in the trees
Dogs bark in the distance
a few streets away
But under the covers
nice and cosy
is where we shall stay
Till it's time to get started
on our day ahead
But for now I'm quite content
under the covers with you
in our bed
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
We conquer all worlds,
Sweet creature: melt my soul,
freshly thawed, vulnerability exposed.
Eager for unbridled wickedness,
within lilting rhythms of your magic.
So inviting, such interwoven seduction,
I discover that you are indeed, She.
The Mistress who cannot be denied,
so take my hand, I shall guide you,
while you, Dark sweet demigod,
Guide me to intoxicating magic,
magic that is you: and you alone.
Pour your evil charms upon me,
Stoke dying embers of my neglected power.
See the flames rekindled;
feel the comforting ice of my being,
savour my destructive cold fire.
Let me soothe you in return,
offering delicious despicable deeds.
Havoc wrought in your name.
The demonic glow inside grows,
until I fear nothing, Dark Mistress.
I am exalted in this vile inferno,
A conflagration of our own creation.
Dark destiny shall not desert us,
but shall become the favoured guide.
I shall never be without you,
Dark Mistress, and together,
We conquer all worlds.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
*I stand at the feet
of this stunning sunset,
The sparks in my eyes,
light each star.*
***Rhythm of each twinkle,
synced with that of my own.
Strong and sure,
albeit few and far.***
*Nameless wind brings to me,
stories of silky clouds
I pull your smile deep in my heart
and finally can breathe.*
***Familiar words
without cloaks nor shrouds.
Just words...
Yours and mine to reveal what
our hearts would unsheathe.***
*What day is this?
Perfect to find
the rebirth of
freshly dewed dreams.*
***It isn't yesterday
nor is it tomorrow
It's today...
Where the sun would see us
weave our tapestries
through promise-bound seams.***
*I feel deep in my heart,
a fluttery stirring,
A hope,
a strength to reach out to you.*
***This hope you speak of...
Tethered by no thread or string
Mending my universe
and making it new.
So now I stand
at the end of this set...
Seeking the beacon
that I had known.
I'd again brave through this day
tomorrow...
Just so that I could hear your heart
that beats with my own...***
Dajena M
ryn
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
the smell of cupcake freshly baked,
is you in my arms the morning as i wake up
-- sweet
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
Walking down the street, you catch a glimpse of the most beautiful woman
And in a second, your life flashes by, she’s with you till the end
Your grave is freshly dug, she sheds a tear
You've not had enough of her, you refuse to leave
She goes home and your ghost follows
She holds a picture of the two of you, forces a smile
Dinner seems to be the most silent and most painful
The television helps, at times
The actors fall in love time and again, this gives her hope
They make her laugh, yet your ghost just sits there. Expressionless
She reads, and reads some more
Books seem to be her new love
The pile next to her bed grows weekly as she can’t stop turning the pages
An old friend visits her, they speak about you
She puts on a smile but she’s not ready yet
They drive down to the fields and the grass clears her mind if only for a while
Your ghost takes a walk and leave her be for a while, but it’s not done yet
Weeks pass, your ghost wanders
She smiles a lot more, even laughs time and again
Once again, she has others in stitches
The second passes.
She walks past.
And yet her ghost just sits there. Expressionless
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
like a static shock i feel you
running up my spine
tingling the hair at the nape of my neck
something harsh and unexpected
but unexpectedly pleasant
snapping me back into the present
eyes freshly opened and wide
like a still from a movie
quaking on the bed
feeling my limbs tighten against you
something soft and yielding
but not fully, pressing back
pushing my core deep into the down
we fight for a moment
tearing at each other with teeth
with claws
with fists, open, closed,
before the tension breaks
and calm floods over us with
no slight pause, sending us both
reeling into oblivion, all extremities
stilled as we stare gasping into the
dark nothingness that surrounds us
heads thrown back and hands clasped
together as we slip away
floating no where, watching galaxies
being ****** into black holes
and stars exploding into limbo
before we find ourselves back
in bed, abruptly, chests heaving and
slick with sweat
where we try to put ourselves back together
fruitlessly
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
it wasn’t chaotic.
it was calm and serene,
like the ocean.
the soft pitter patter
of the rain on the roof,
and the cool air it brought.
it was a sip
of freshly brewed coffee,
natural with no additives,
whatsoever.
the gut feeling
of knowing where home was.
and that is how
you came into my life.
the star that shines the brightest
amongst the pitch black sky.
it’s the white cloud that outshines
all the gray and gloomy ones.
the perfect fit of the last piece
to the unfinished puzzle.
it's the warm, fuzzy feeling
of getting into bed
early on a Friday night.
and that is how it was
when I started loving you.
it’s like a deeply cut wound,
one that’s inundating
with crimson colored blood,
having a tinge of maroon.
it induces pain
with every inbreathe
and exhalation.
it manages to have
the appearance of a scar,
yet it still feels so fresh
like a bruise.
and that is how it felt
when you left.
it was filled with haze
and suffocation.
the uncontrollable fast paced beat
of your heart.
Mona Lisa's enigmatic smile,
one that is hardly understood
by majority of the world.
a bite of dark chocolate,
bitter and sweet.
and this is my survival.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
With skin the color of coffee what I wouldn't give to have a cup of her
Putting my lips to hers taking long slow sips warming my insides
Her fragrance is like freshly brewed aromatherapy healing my soul.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
5am, I sit alone my mind feeling so bright
is it early morning or the middle of the night.
The wind still howls winters tune
and trees are dancing in the dale.
I yearn for sun and summers warmth
but all I get is cold and hail.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
The days start dark and keep me hidden
as if to say that it's forbidden,
to laugh and sing and have the fun
I get from walking in the sun.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
I long to see the flowers smile,
the shadows form on my sundial.
The smell of grass that's freshly mown,
the shoots from seeds so freshly sown.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
Smiling children everywhere
running around without a care.
Winter woollens stashed away
and let's forget those rainy days.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
Take away this winters cold
it only makes me feel old.
Bring the sun and bring the light
and take away this awful night.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
Early morning sun please shine,
and as I sit with glass of wine.
I'll try to not let my mind splinter
and forget all about the winter.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
and take away this cold disease.
Once again to see you glow
and throw your warmth through my window.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and
Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at
One another. Heaping piles of human soup.
Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and
Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined.
Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly
Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams.
Streamers above a long rooting movement.
Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman,
Legs pressed tightly to the chest,
Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls
In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat.
Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up
I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.
Stage two:
Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar.
To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips
In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth.
We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was
A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.
Stage three:
***
Stage four.
***
Stage five:
As we earn our pageantry to take
Stride on this Earth, and string a
Great bow of eager success among all of us,
You, me, them. While I continue to
Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a
Cup of tea instead.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
(I love) Dignity
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly*
knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age
this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step
I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond desperately
yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum
Dignity.
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely*
dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled
to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.
all else will follow
the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework
now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,
in a manner most
undignified
still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out
and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,
forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.
it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing*
I love dignity.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
*she slides her slender
white fingers down the
branches of his spine
her eyes melted like
glaciers and lips as soft
as freshly fallen snow
skin lustful, but heart
unforgiving, exhaling
his every intention
she is autumn in his
palms, her trees bare,
the leaves rust fallen
flashing indifference,
thoughts plucked in
shades of violent rose*
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Our last connection with the mythic.
My mother remembers the day as a girl
she jumped across a little spruce
that now overtops the sandstone house
where still she lives; her face delights
at the thought of her years translated
into wood so tall, into so mighty
a peer of the birds and the wind.
Too, the old farmer still stout of step
treads through the orchard he has outlasted
but for some hollow-trunked much-lopped
apples and Bartlett pears. The dogwood
planted to mark my birth flowers each April,
a soundless explosion. We tell its story
time after time: the drizzling day,
the fragile sapling that had to be staked.
At the back of our acre here, my wife and I,
freshly moved in, freshly together,
transplanted two hemlocks that guarded our door
gloomily, green gnomes a meter high.
One died, gray as sagebrush next spring.
The other lives on and some day will dominate
this view no longer mine, its great
lazy feathery hemlock limbs down-drooping,
its tent-shaped caverns resinous and deep.
Then may I return, an old man, a trespasser,
and remember and marvel to see
our small deed, that hurried day,
so amplified, like a story through layers of air
told over and over, spreading.
9.5k
#STICK’EM UP with LIQUID NAILS
DANGER ! EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE
See Other Caution on Back Panel:
I’m hot for you Cowgirl – you’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby – I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces – pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight. Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you… stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl – and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier – there’s only one side of you… your GOOD side. Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose.
YEE – HAW ! Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet – be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset…
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
You are my
December because you seem to
emanate a golden glow,
quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
brought by the northeast wind of
clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
wrap your arms around me
tightly, it
reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
my dear grandma knitted for me.
You are my
December in how you
light up my eyes like
the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
fireworks that set fire to
the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
you are a great gift
like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
you are a sweet treat
like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
freshly baked and toasty
you refresh me
like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
You are my
December because
you leave me melting
like the mini mallows sprinkled
on my hot choco steaming
You are my
December because
I love December
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence
8.8k
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD
Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City;
Where the sand is stained with blood
As the world feigns pity.
Broken families, unspoken tragedies –
The order of everyday life.
He was born amidst chaos and strife,
To a divorcing husband and wife.
If life were lived in peace,
This dissolution would’ve been a release.
Not much more, not much less –
A family’s lore, a decision to digress.
In war-ravaged land, however,
One needs every helping hand,
Especially a soul that was so clever.
Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand;
A furious, rapacious search,
Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind.
Why do we exist?
Why do we fight and resist?
Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists?
Does anybody outside Palestine care?
Will they keep on watching?
Or will they be unable to bear?
Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought,
As he sat at the Marna House Hotel,
Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought.
A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist,
A prudent man who would have gotten far.
An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression –
An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression.
Hunted down and killed by the IDF,
Another pacifist murdered for being an activist.
One figure of many who died;
One of those who did not want to hide.
Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter –
He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter.
Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter,
And perhaps have family of his own.
He was in love, and wanted to get married,
But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried.
The final twist of horror?
Having the intellect to apply for University,
And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply,
Yet not being allowed to leave the city.
That is the news Mohanad had received,
Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived.
Denied a right to education
Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication.
The glass ceiling, dripping with blood,
Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.
Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.
You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.
You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.
Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings
For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC