two shitty poems

all that i have now is something that i cannot keep. something i am afraid to keep.

each day it rips at my insides like some wild beast, aching to be released from its electrified cage.

but as much as i try to suppress this "thing", i know that i cannot stop it.

i can't stop myself.

that is what i need to talk to you about.

you can help me.

you can help me because there is also something in you, ripping its way to the surface.

i know that you are also scared.

i dream about you and me,together; lying in a field, licking each others wounds.

pools of blood, slurping up everything around.

ecstasy, looking up at a red moon, half-conscious from the loss of blood.

my life is yours now.

i can barely feel you chewing. my life to your life.

i know this has got to be the beginning, the end would be too convenient for everyone.

is there actually someone still there?

i'm having a hard time caring.

my eyes keep slamming shut and are getting harder to open.

i should do something, but i won't.

that has always been a fault of mine.

find this,please; and save a life that needs you. your blood, your soul.

i'm done with everything :love, guns, blood,drugs, death, laughter, hope and dignity.

show my true insides, unless you're still feeding.

i love to love, and i wouldn't have changed.

　

　

　

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#2

there is a girl worth writing about-

lying again on the melted field

lapping up the translucent luxury that was her.

euphoric utterings

equip my pondering

with a sense of real life ecstasy,

which before i thought improbable.

loneliness keeps sinking in, though,

and even while i try to outrun it,

it keeps closing in.

i don't know what i'll do

when the blanket of the alone comes down.

there is a girl worth writing about-

the subject wracks my brain and

clenches my fist,

knowing that i can never totally express

what she could represent.

not knowing her fully myself

is what keeps me awake at night,

staring at the darkness with a

doomed expression slapped on my face.

even now, as the dawn lights awaken,

the very essence of her still lingers

on the tip of my tongue and fingers.

what horrible evil have i suffered,

not to have her driven off by another.

one never knows oneself

until a far-reaching search is concluded.

i shall start now.......

there is a girl worth writing about-

the name brings an acid sting to my mouth and heart.

it appears that Camus was wrong;

death doesn't prolong love, just post-pones life.

why do i bring these thoughts with me?

why am i doomed to take them with me to the grave?

i'm a love slave

to the dead and buried.

i've still got the blood on my shirt....