PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I rested my heart

on the golden brown remains

of the chainsaw that my

Old Man left me.

His lonely gift.

Now I know a strange grace

that one time found me

gripping that quiet present

and sank me in its love,

a drowning ship

reaching with metal hands

to grab the sides of the tub.

But you cranked the chains

through simple lies,

I watched bedroom slippers

and trembling thighs

tear and rip through.



My only gift.



How odd that hospitals

house sickness and disease

when people go there for a cure.

I just went to find solace

or a bandage big enough to bleed.



When the buildings all decide

in secret societies

not to stand for anything anymore

would you bring that chainsaw

to the bottom floor,

and find a way to cut me out

of this hospital's heart?



You've performed surgery before.