and i ask myself a million questions i pretend i could answer.


March 5th, 2011

Puppet is Dead

Plastic lips.
I feel like I'm being torn apart
From the inside out.

That voice is soft and slicing all at once,
As if my ears
Would burn to the touch.

And God stood there,
Wringing the water our of the clouds,
Looking down upon us.

What small creatures.

Bruised porcelain.
Warm to the touch,
It's the echoes written on the wall.

Spiders,
Crawling over skin on skin and arms and legs,
As if the world threatened to fall apart,
And the insects, crawl out of your veins.

Just keep going,
For fear of the end
Of motion.

It's the sweet sound of progress,
Gnawing at my spine,
Waiting for Dr. Grim to take it all away.
(extract the fluid in titanium valves)

Liquid eyes,
The drops of rain,
Hit like splashes of rouge
On cold, bloodless cheeks.

She wouldn't look you
In the eye.
It's the guilt of the moment and time.

It wasn't your fault.

And God stood there,
Tormenting her poor soul
As she disappeared from within.
Left the empty container,
Sitting on the bathroom floor.

And the fields turned to oceans,
His name turned to air,
None would see the end of it all.

Plastic palms.
Faced the mirror
The wall, the other side.
(numbing to the touch)

I want to tear the pieces off
One by one.
Summer dawns in the morning,
Coal dusted fingerprints,
line the inside of her lungs.

As he smokes a cigarette; shaded.

The sun melts through the radio,
Cuts open his sunglasses,
But she just lies there.
Still.

Daisy blooming,
Along the wrist line of her open hands.
tattoo'd into blood and flesh.
she can't grasp them anymore.

her whole life has been building up
to this moment.