Sunday, April 20, 2008

Bitter suicide note after masturbation.

The only problem with stability, peace and
calm blue seas for me is that shaking,
burning, itchy feeling inside which I hide.
Hide
the one that brings blood to your dreams,
and forms demons beside the bed in the
darkest hours of the night, when outside
the decking creaks and the neighbour's
dog stops barking and just whimpers
ever so quietly and shadows make you
mad with masochistic maudlin and
longing for someone to chase The Devil
from your bed and replace him with
something warmer, something hotter
like when someone bellowed and someone
blew, like you used to do - but instead it's
a womb, your room, the blankets a tomb
and your perfume smells rank
rank and disused, beside the bed,
dead - it's been fed - and rotting
with lies and the tears in my eyes
are your bitter sweet prize so
fuck it
maybe I'll die,
(i'm not that guy)
yeah
maybe I'll die
so that
then you can fly.

No comments:

Post a Comment