Not sure I should tell you this,
because the embers will die out before they can play host to the ground.
The trees will suffocate as I do,
Turning grape juice into wine and then again into blood.
It’s a complicated, vicious cycle
of something out of nothing.
Trust from lust.
In a white room, crowded,
ripped open by accusations.
It was a safe place to live a lie,
everything was where it belonged.
Or was it just that the music was so intoxicating?
seems as though I’m the only one listening.
Their eyes move with me as if it were polite.
bi-POLAR was featured on subliminal interiors, now defunct.
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I wrote it down the way you would see a memory:
That house is pink now
It was so big back then
The fence was made of linked chains
We put our feet in the cavities
To jump over and play in the street
I also remember there were puppies
We were not allowed to keep
Down the street there was a girl
I don’t believe she was a friend
The retrieval feels awkward
But it does come to the surface
I see her and my brother in a closet
Playing games before consulting the rules
Memories was featured in a poetry project that was on Facebook.
Poetry Is Dead
Poetry is dead
I watched her die
In my arms and at my hands
The unsuspecting victim
I posed as a friend
A Bird of her feather
Made myself comfortable in her romance
Let her seduce me
She was so wrapped up in the attention
My embrace was welcomed
I kiss one side of her neck
On the other began to drag a knife across
Red droplets hit the ground
I wrapped her body
Then I buried her in fiction
Poetry Is Dead was featured in The Experience, FSCJ literary mag.