The ground has turned cold
And you were not here to see,
the beauty of
the winter
and it's majesty.
You have been taken
by a mystery far above.
But I hope you still have winter there,
and maybe even snow.
But here we will miss you,
your cheesy presents,
wrapped in cheesy paper.
I'll miss your holiday spirit,
and your joy that you were living.
But you are gone now,
naken by sickness.
But all I can think about is,
this is our first winter in which
you weren't there to see.

you want real ****** poetry
well cut me open

but all thats dripping out is coagulated procrastination
and I wonder

does the man living in the building across
see me naken from time to time?
what is his fascination with glass jars
I hear drunkards and bottles smash
from the windows downstairs
I wonder if he breathes smoke
and I wonder what he coughs up at night

my days last until 3 a.m.
my eyelashes carry designer hand bags
catching all that skin that
spills over

I listen to Claire de lune and feel like
scraping the itches off my scalp,
tiny thoughts trying to escape.

they'll never get far