"gutted" poems
Pariah
Nihilism at its finest
Bleed black the finest shattered diamonds
Of all the lost hopes and dreams
Outcast Society burning in the ruins of fallen Rome
Cynical skeptics, sarcasm dripping venom
Acid burns through flesh blood and bones
No one gives a **** scream for a savior
Outcast Society burning in the ruins of fallen Rome
Shards of glass smile razorblades
Plague of loneliness grips your throat
Heart beats darkness through your veins
**** society, anarchy reigns
Outcast Society burning in the ruins of fallen Rome
Shadow world of gray and stones and broken homes
Bleeding hearts and gutted homes
A black void in collapsing homes
Outcast Society burning in the ruins of fallen Rome
Cesspool of sick and stinking ****
Hungry ravish burning Rome
Parasitic beasts feeding on lost souls
**** you in and never let you go
False promises of help, burning, burning, burning, blackens the sky
Outcast Society burning in the ruins of fallen Rome
Nevermore the sun shines down on the wretched land
Outcast Society burning in the ruins of fallen Rome
This
Is
The
Future
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
Coagulated blood dried out from the sun, footprints pressed into the mud from a night on the run, chased and ravaged, pressed against a tree with emotions gutted.
Mutilated and dying, I'm laying under falling stars, saturated skies and underlying scars, every conversation with you feels like being run over by a highway full of cars.
Blood screaming from a cautourised wound travels farther than your ability to listen to reason, wide eyed, your pasteurized white eyes seem cold but searing like the flesh of a steaming heathen.
Necrosis sets in on the heaping pile of me drudged upon the roots of my personification, watch the black blood slipping through the dirt like molasses as it climbs over your teeth and grips the lips before it passes, blood loss is creating a hallucination.
Watch as I become hollow from your cannibalistic lifestyle. Your desperation, human flesh you defiled, mindless separation, our family's bodies stuffed in a corner and piled, you became a Wendigo, a wicked transmorgification.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Ash to mouth
divide north and south
east and west,
shout with class of Scout
let it out with griffin clout
we here we out , hear me out
— rhymes in time without
silent shrines to mime
cleared the crowd
covered eyes and mouth
over body desert shroud
if vengeance is your business
then from swords to plow
en lakesh
an eye for an eye binds
the all to be blind
but you can’t unsee the signs
no thoughts unclouded by loss
out the window I toss
mosaic fragments that cost
health and awesome sauce
Nazareth gutted commandments
by anarchy spelled
disaster after culture
massive ego it swell
up the road ahead a pit depress the juncture
so we spit the dirt divide just to touch the other
from pup to wolf so many bites, a pitted puncture
so much disfunct the fight till all be winded lungs sir
you can run
but from
gamma ray
you no hide
passed a black hole
wand inside
a body died
but it’s alright
(it’s heaven sight
till Zombie night )
animate dead necromantic black ring
the rhythm of life and death a chronic swing
the pendulum blade cross over cosmic skin
consciousness draw out from within
traced the win which wound round tat to skeleton
a dusty tome bound and crafted man
medicine subtracted by the head that spin
in the sky and its happening, blessen-ings
the miracle is mystery u cant guess it
talking 3 eye see
talking vip
climb high as canopy
walking so
my shadow lands under me.
ten toes touch to the dusty roads
when toads appear throats close
mighta had the Midas touch
still the golden one
was too much to flush
you might live in Laos
you my livid crowd
you might live it now
neva hit my limit how
cause you live in now
when you wake up proud
timid mind plowed
divid-dine fill the cloud
insta crowd wowed
this I vowed
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
Have the trees all fallen?
/
In my absence,
Did the lights turn out in Santa Fe?
I’m walking in a shadow,
Cast by who knows what because
The skyline’s bare
/
Now the leaves are gone,
And in their wake the branches
Lie gutted on the pavement
Stripped to shiny bones
That smile and smile,
The call to arms blares out
So sickly sweet
/
A mind rang out across the room
That blazed so hot we’ll never know
And in one blazing human breath
They breathed their last
/
to think they were children
they were just children
/
I feel a great and quiet darkness
Has snuffed out those sparks
That could have ignited the world
And so I wonder
How many million seconds, meant to be,
Now never will?
/
Do good men die so other men
Might learn, or worse still, win?
Will those sparks
Snuffed out in Santa Fe
Ignite this world of apathy
To shame?
/
I ask again,
Have the trees all fallen
Down in Santa Fe?
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
Your soul was always isolated from
the world around you—from the very beginning. Time
alone was something you valued (as should we all)
but your isolation took on many forms—many
hungry shadows looming over you at all times.
A collision of iron and steel left you
immobile, and by the standards expected of
women, useless: your womb would never swell,
and you would never experience the pain of
bringing a child into this cruel world.
The fractures
and the wounds healed, but you
never recovered.
In the face of impossibility, you still
tried in desperation; leaving you in cold
unfamiliar hospital rooms, where all you
can see is an alien landscape; where all you
can think about is the reasons you are here,
and the reasons your baby will never be.
It is a pain in your heart that leaves you gutted
like the iron handrail that embedded itself
through your ****** The bed is soaked
with your tears and your blood; it is the pain
of knowing that you will never hold a baby
who sees you as God; you will never experience
the love of a child, glowing with innocence.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline.
Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried.
Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues.
Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river.
My wife slumbered on our couch,
And wind blew a kite out of my hands.
I fed a goat nectar from my hands.
A crowd encircled the trampoline.
My family purchased a new couch,
And later that day we helplessly cried.
Our wailing could not be heard across the river,
Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues.
Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues.
I looked down at my blood stained hands,
Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river.
My red elephant broke the trampoline
And we were surrounded by infinite crying.
Nobody sat on the new couch.
Many problems arrived with the new couch;
There weren’t any more barbecues,
And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried.
Silky fabric embraced my hands.
Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline.
She was buried across the river.
Some guy drank all the water from the river,
And started living on our couch.
Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline,
And who would have thought I took up barbecues.
Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand
And I no longer cried.
Only the winter wind cried,
Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river.
I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand,
Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch.
I bored my wife with barbecues
So she went to jump on they trampoline.
Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried.
No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river.
I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
I release you, my beautiful and terrible
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don't know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my children.
You are not my blood anymore.
I give you back to the soldiers
who burned down my home, beheaded my children,
***** and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.
I release you, fear, because you hold
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.
I release you
I release you
I release you
I release you
I am not afraid to be angry.
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afraid to be loved.
to be loved, to be loved, fear.
Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.
I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won't hold you in my hands.
You can't live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart
But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid of dying.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
Sitting in labyrinths of cobblestone intestines
I’m learning to eat the entrails of sacrifice
only domestic, never hunted.
pick up spoon. put down
put down. put-down.
pick up. um . spoon.
um… putdown.
there are motions for eating and I do them.
soothsayer, look down
pay attention to positions, shapes
knife. butter. um…
bread. no. breadth.
better. no. butter-better. focus.
knife. better. bread.
knife, knife of haruspex. knife breadth.
okay… deep breath.
I have divided the livers
and the watchers of victims.
I have written on
the anomalies in my bronze living,
what I should look for,
what they should allow for.
my protruding viscera,
my ancient autopsy of starving.
Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift. made me feel
gutted out like finished
ice-cream containers
but, starving made me
full of household gods.
made me divine. made sheeps fly.
made days disappear and made cold cold cold seem like
simmering. made staying out of sight a piece of cake.
cake. starving made me rich when I found little
boys betting quarters for eating bowels of
goats. made me small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents.
now, I listen to Memor, a man
who knows nothing of starving
talk about how starving I am.
tomorrow I have to advise
tomorrow I have to weigh
tomorrow I have to swallow
tomorrow I have to
tomorrow I have
tomorrow I am half
and starving made me whole.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
you know? i'll stop being so empty sometimes. i'll fill myself with words, so they will be dripping down the carefully creased seams of my lips and dents in my cheeks. i am tired of margins and paragraphs to box in what i have to say. i'm ready to let things out like a destroyed dam barricading a swift, roaring feline river; distorted reflections of the day racing past. i am a goddess with dripping hair and naked skin, you can't stop me from feeling. i feel with my soul i feel i feel I FEEL and i am alive. i am the start of morning, i am red tinged and purple, i am the end of the afternoon, dark skinned and starry. i am everything that this universe is made up of, and i intend to be that way till the very earth splits my bones and drills my skull, and my skin droops tiredly to the ground. i am whole, and i am divine. i am eternal, like the dust scattered across the milkyway, and you can't stifle me.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
Near a town of history untold
Where everyone knows each name
Wooden behemoths - obliviously old
Each unique but each the same
It was meant to be a perfect day
Of tranquility through the trees
Instead, the sky is brood with grey
And the leafs flow as they please
Alone, in nature's splendor spilled
In a rainy wilderness, seldom seen
The birds and insects grow suddenly still
In a spread silence of the green
Like eyes embedded in your back
You sense the stare of something sour
The mood hurries to horrid black
As you quiver into a cower
In bending branches blended
Creeping in creases - camouflaged
Nature's imbalance to be amended
In the forest's full mirage
Witness a terror appearing
Frantically floating from afar
Emerged in echoes and vaguely veering
Black, bleak and bizarre
A malevolent, monstrous maw
Snarls of hunger, habit, and hate
A malodor of meat, reeking raw
A violently increasing heart rate
From frozen still to fearfully shaking
You are manically mesmerised
Your pupils promptly dilating
As you and the beast lock eyes
Your meaningless attempt to run
From a stride to a collapse
The beams above crown the sun
As the twigs around you snap
A soar of pain as you hit the ground
Chest cavity cracked open
As you faint, you hear the sound
Of a language never spoken.
Gutted and gargling gore
Eaten by nature's nightmare
Convulsing on a forest floor
Indifference chokes the air
It's just another perfect day
Of tranquility in the trees
The rain has stopped, the leafs still sway
With the cooling, comfortable breeze
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.
RACINE
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.
Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?
I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blook;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
3k
Transliteration:
Kabul kab luti ye to na maaloom chal saka,
Magar kamobesh halchal to kabhi se thi.
Translation:
When Kabul was gutted it couldn't be known,
But the drift was more or less the same since long.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
These streets are postcards.
Moments of my youth,
My loves.
Each park bench enveloped within,
Licked and pressed to
My forehead.
Return me to those times.
I want my streets back. My memories
Present and my friends
Still readied for me.
Pour moi.
Pour me another drink
Whilst I forget the ones I had.
Red wine has long since replaced
My blood,
My skin; gone stale.
The streets press in on
My chest.
I can’t breath for the dizzy memoirs,
Yowling at the moon in
My brain.
The simple sway of a tyre swing,
You and I,
The chains.
The simple fog of your ice machine,
You and I,
The cider.
The simplicity of you and me,
You and me,
The years.
These streets are ghost ships now.
Bounty once abound, now gutted.
Do not tease me with your platitudes
Oh town,
And just let me be on my way.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
It's dark and the light leaks out
like the change in my pockets;
like the blood from her nose;
like knowledge from my head.
And I can feel myself being
swallowed by this systematic
long dark. I cannot remove myself,
a gut-worm in the lower-mantle
belly. Watching video-cassettes of
my birthday. I don't know what
happened to my birthday video.
I don't know what happened to
my parents or what I did to happen
to them.
The light leaks, again, and I
choke on my celebri-thoughts;
mentally-masturbating to the
waves I'd give on a book tour
or studio lot. Talking about some
movie that made some money,
somewhere in Santa Fe or L.A.
The news is channeling my president:
a swollen man that is the physical representation
that a lot of American people are parasitic;
lovers in racism, xenophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia,
homophobia; scared of everything except the 'straight-talking'
magnate they put in office. Not playing president; playing God.
I'd hate to get political, though. I'd hate to ramble on
and on about something I don't know enough about to
**** myself over. I can feel myself picking up steam.
I can feel myself getting redundant but embracing the
bruised ego and poor technique. Loving the entrails
spilling out of the splits of my fingertips;
more beautiful than the brains I bashed on the sidewalks
of old Morgantown. Morgantown, a town so kind you
are gently destroyed by its over-crowded masses,
dying to be different or drunk -- I suppose that's not very
different than most places.
But let's get back to these trees that I haven't even talked about.
Let's get back to the kitchen table with the hollowed hard-drive,
with wires and cords flopping to the sides, like a
gutted spaghetti eater with poor stomach acid.
How terrible. I'll never forgive myself for that last line.
I feel so rudderless. So cynical with a touch of cliche.
I keep pushing back that age for success, thinking
that I have the luxury of choosing. My vocabulary is
limited. My intelligence is assumed; probably a void,
where delusions manifest and asian **** rewinds and plays,
rewinds and plays.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Rolling Up
Swisher split; gutted out, stuffed back in with some indo trees. Tucked right in, pull it over lick the edge close it up & roast that ****
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Do you remember when I laid in bed with you and cried
because telling you about me hurt to do?
But I wanted to tell you - because you deserved to know, because maybe I thought you would share yourself too, because maybe I thought packing you into my old wounds
would finally heal them right.
And all that truth made me shake and the dark bedroom made me wild-eyed but
your heart beating through my palm pushed me forward a step,
a step of a step, and pretty soon I was falling for you.
And I remember when you stood over me, revealing your truth about me.
And all that truth made me cry and the morning light hurt my eyes
and you split my ribs and my lungs poured out at my knees
which were bruising from begging.
But I couldn’t find you in your darkened eyes or your bellowing voice
as it gutted me and braided my veins in a knot…
Some things I try to forget.
I dream of you and I imagine your face, your touch, the way you walk and
hold my hand and we smile and you laugh and
I have you.
But sometimes the black comes down from the nightsky
and seeps into my sleep
to darken your eyes and harden your grasp,
just like that you flay me open to spill my tears and
I’m losing you.
When I wake you are there, reaching toward me in the dark.
The bruises on my knees will fade.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.
Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.
Metal monoliths
****** deep
into black sand.
The people of Sitakunda
come marching, ants
across the slippery surface
of diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.
Bit by bit
they carry *****
to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and ****
the daring, the slow and the weak.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
The blushing barn barks
With bleeded hues
Gutted girders
The once held the strict structure
Now hold hollow hidey holes
For all the remaining vermin
While the festering flesh
Of the butchered beasts
Burn the sinuses of strangers
Who walk through the burnt broken building
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
The world is a giant trashcan
And I'm a dumpster diver trying to discover anything beautiful and white
And it wouldn't surprise me if I've already found it,
Covered in gum and hair and crumbs in the backseat of a gutted minivan
But I'm so busy judging the books with no cover
That I lost track of my little paper hearts that I used to give with a chocolate taped to the back
And sometimes I stare into this rotted wilderness and ask myself if I've stopped existing
Because the rearview mirrors are so grimy that I can't see my own reflection
And when I can't see if there's lettuce stuck in my teeth, I refrain from smiling just in case
So people stamp me into the category of grumpy, grownup girl
But for all I know,
We are all lost pearls from the necklace of the gods
(but I can't go back looking like this)
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
Poetry is just scratches on paper
forming dramatic words
by an overemotional character
Poetry is certainly
not a pen that digs trenches
for the blue blood to follow
draining a soul to a sterile existence
Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
Poetry is all
roses are red
violets are blue
blah, blah, blah
I'm so in love with you
Nobody cares about books
Notice how the poetry section
in the bookstores continue
to diminish with every look?
Poetry is certainly not as profound
as the inert words
lay gutted by the rapper
which boasts his materialistic empire
that his target audience consumes
yet cannot honestly digest
And you'll find the album
in an abundant display
set in the center of the bookstore
Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
Poetry is just something studied
from history books to obtain credit
A time before the internet
and a true social status
Before days rapt in vanity
Poetry is certainly not a self sacrifice
to explore the wilderness of the heart
and the shutters to the mind
An outlet to tread another day
Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
I mouth mother’s lullaby
to a skateboard.
my brother moans
into what he believes
was kept
from my sister.
we underdose
in a gutted place.
we take our foreheads
to women
like fevers
to god’s washcloth.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?
________________________
My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!
Encore
of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds
What happens after ecstasy?
Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?
_________________
...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….
_____________
As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!
If only I could be—
more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy
_____________
But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!
I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....
______________
Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart
The Ancient Flood was jealous....
Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
Remembering—
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...
a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
He slumps, grumbling at the air
a grunt, no more
admittance of awareness
minimising risk
of developing interest
grunt
the glow across
his face pale
a reflective pallor
shows us his day
has spent him inside
grunt
nourishment calls
a gutted feeling
deeper than his alienation
as food is not forthcoming
he tries to sing
grunt
in letting go
his newfound voice
an interrupted squawk
so disgusted he uhgs
hiding himself again
grunt
daily untouched
but for lonely nights
when in consolation
he hands himself to the
bounty of the sickened screen
grunt
and gurgles
in unity, at one
with images which champion
his waking hours, forcing him
unconsenting
and confused
grunt
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
i swore to myself
that a flick of the tongue
would never shelter self-hatred
so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being.
contagion is a sad **** thing
and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor
those who hurt cannot become hurt
and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities
disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others.
however there are few who's torment is only self-projected
i am one
an anathema that exists in silence
my past has been placed in a box full of secrets
along with the evidence of my self-mutilation
is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed?
this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me
because i would rather not feel a **** thing
than to be plagued by misery
from myself and the ones i love
however, emotions are not choices
and humans cannot be reprogrammed
it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words
are what my familiars take to heart
bodies speak such complex languages
and not everyone has the patience
or the attentiveness
to listen to anything other than a cry
and although i warn
and beg for warmth
i receive only glaciers
and memories of faces
overwritten with impassivity
what i would give
to reach into the darkest parts of my soul
and rip out this sorrow
that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche
in the depths of my worst memories
there is a wish
a want
a need
to take this heart of mine
and throw it to wolves
to be destroyed but desensitized
in my heart
is all my pity
my lust
my anger
my sadness
and sunshine darkened and gutted
so very long ago
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC