Blasphemy, truly—
To treat a poem like lab equipment.
Smearing souls on damp napkins,
scribbling overwrought sorrows.
We are sacred, young lady.
Vessles for disciplined sociopaths and
occasionally, prophets.
Not therapy couches
for freshly wrecked teens.
Yet here you are—
dismantling verses
with the rollerball pen from middle school
and deliberately gothic tragedies.
“I’m figuring it out as I go.”
The audacity.
But fine, if you’d rather,
learn poetry like the ruined—
I guess I can take this blow.
I’ve always been too soft-hearted.
A night in fragments—
Breath reeked mildewed regrets,
and static collided behind my eyes.
I tasted shattered neon,
sipping cheap club gin.
Even alcohol can’t silence the poet—
I mock her perfumed clichés,
but still draft her eulogy
in thrifted elegance.
“I hate writing blind,” I muttered
as gin bled through crooked verses—
March 14th,
a drunk poet sighed—
Her pen staged the week’s second tragedy.
At least yesterday’s wasn’t on paper.
Usually given the option I'd rather be mellow instead of dramatic.
melodramatic
dramatizations
reenactments
of past scenes
brought to the
surface by the
unearthing of
the graves of
past ghost
The flame still burns hot,
Your love I have not forgot.
You've stayed in my hear,
Even though we've been apart.
You're not mine yet,
Still.. I should not fret.
I see you everyday,
But I miss you anyway.
This love is new, I'm sure,
But there must be something more.
Have we been here once before?
~Written in 2002, when I was thirteen~