PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I walked out

And saw nothing,

This was everything.



I wondered who had died

To make this fertile or futile existence

So barren.



If she would have deteriorated

Into another unpublished story

Of strength lost into weakness

At least holding her would confirm my own strength.

Stretching out these hands

That could nourish hope

Like breast milk,

But I am no female.

Living a lie

The truth of what I am.

I am told Kurt Cobain could be worth idolizing

I am told he had substance

And I have heard that suicide

Is a coward’s way out.

What brave man

Would say he is done with life’s nothing

Before his time?

Living seventeen years

So I was unliving before that,

Now I am just dead.

Maybe spirits touch the flesh

And remember the pain,

Pain hidden in a chat room

Expressed after in the sin of flesh.



Crowded cities

That could expose the loss of.

Los Angeles

That might remembers its suburbs.

The mother

The aunt

The umbilical cord

Scissors

What was cut

Dear Lord

My wrists need cream if anything.

So if they cry

Will my heart be doused?

If he wins and I lose

Should the funeral be open-casket?

Bad fags

The Pope wears his skirts

And with wisdom,

I expect nothing.