Sometimes, I wish you were

poetry. Bang your tongue

against the doors.


Locked, bolted in the kitchen

where drawers of knives

slit through beautiful lies.


But we're all civilised people

So take all your knives and forks

Place them on the grates.

Love, that tasted nice.

Life, left a sour taste.

Pain, afforded a blank untarnishable slate.

Sympathy equals lobotomy.

The rest wrapped, grasped into

the webby compartment.

All in one; stomach.

Nice bite.


Spinning heartless tops in

your lap.

You say, but you don't say.

'Lips are there to breed

illnesses deep. I stay up late

because spectres speculate through

my sleep.'

Sometimes I wish you were


You hide and just glide through

life, which works just fine.

But sometimes I really wish

you were poetry.


Then… I could rip you apart.