It’s not supposed to

I saw a woman floating on a cloud
She said life is a garden of blades of steel

And showed me her hands full of papercuts

‘I like to collect broken pieces’

Her eyes were shattered glass and shrapnel

‘I am the end of all things. I begin where everything ends’

The man inside a bubble

writes songs about the life he was passing by.

.

Eyeballs hang ripe on trees

Crushing under blind feet.

.

 

 

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Real

Poems are little indulgences. Shameful little ways to vent whiny demons. Secret whispers to all the shit you want to shout out. Because it’s all in the head. The chemicals are making you happy, the chemicals are making you want to die.

What is real

is beyond.

The city is too small

Life rests on a swinging door,

experience fogs obsidian windows,

the soul rides a breathing train.

The graveyard of form;

shrouded minds and tombstone faces.

We are the infinites,

Saviors, warriors, the respiring dead.

The infinitesimal city folds into the eye

and repeats itself.

Is it a riddle?

 

I  have no self-inflicted wounds

Except you.

There’s a star in the sky,

For every mark on me.

(I wish it were so.)

I’m dust and rain and chemicals.

Paper skin

tissue lips.

Guts, rust and bones.