They ask me to pick my poison and I ask for everything but you. I’ve been shoving pills and drinks down my throat one by one but nothing can erase you from my mind. Continue reading
One night, her words won’t rhyme.
Her verses will die a slow death,
a little at a time,
mocking every memory she wrote.
On that night, your poetry will write
herself a suicide note-
broken, baffled, bereft of hope,
wishing, she could feel
a little less empty,
and a little bit more.
On that night, kiss your poetry to sleep,
tear her note to shreds, give her a shoulder
on which to weep,
tell her that you believe, in her stead;
and in the simple fact that poetry
can never truly be dead.
Tell her, that you believe in her,
and in tomorrow, a time
when she’ll turn her sorrow
into the most beautiful thing the world has ever read.
Watch over her, until she rips apart
her suicide note from end to end.
Then pray, that on nights like these,
she learns to write something better instead.
I expected too much from reality,
Disappointment led me to my fantasies.
The world is a stage and the play is called Life. Death directs it all sitting in a chair with his eyes trained on you. Continue reading
I’m am fire, burning in hushed tones because my destruction is louder. I’m the harsh desert winds, leaving you craving for something else. Continue reading