My soul is evanescent;
public eyes survey its nude form,
tattooed like the inked veins of a lexicon
and as translucent as a suicidal thought.
I claw at my own throat, hoping
a few choked verses leak out of my mouth.
Bandages, hands are affectionately wrapped
around my neck, but the bleeding won't stop!
Hallucinations: waltzing fantasies dying
agonizingly slow on my optical dancefloors,
my haven dressed in elegant blurs.
Still, I dare to call myself sane.
Death is a gamble which my beloved thoughts take,
and every single line knows their lives are at stake.
My mind vomits scraps of toxic syllables--
restless suicide at its finest poetic hour.
You desire to write like little Miss Rosalyn Cross?
Ballpoint thorns bleed black letters and
print splattered emotions on starving sheets,
the very words leaving lipstick stains on my grave.
A saturated, velvety, crimson future.
