What's left . . .
(I break my spine against you
slit my wrists with your razor teeth
Drink my blood, narcissistic vampire
that I am I crave
identity and receive self-help books instead)
. . . no . . .
(A junkie, I shot up with myself just so
you could hear my words echo inside
my star chamber aorta
Worship me Dominate me Destroy me
take me under your guillotine of
personality and lies)
What's right . . .
(Who's going down on you today
no one pleases me like I do There's
nothing left to do no more to say I am
ignoring myself out of spite to be like you
to be like all of you)
. . . to care about anymore?
Is anyone listening to me at all?
YOU ARE READING
Once more into the night...
PoesíaA few poems I've written over the years. They run the gamut (or gauntlet, if you will) from love poems to pieces about climbing.
