Tis the season to be meloncholy
The bleak blank spot between
Purgatory and the concept of
Putting pumpkins in obscure
Scenarios and contemplate decay
Like your heart, and the cold
Intertwining with ivy and rust
Because youve left it out in
The rain for too many afternoons
Suddenly it splits open
And reveals mush and dust all
the bugs writhing down my little
white cuffs turn black lightning
becomes frightning cathartic and
sublime at the same deadly time
For its the season, seasoning salt
Bitter taste in my mouth, your mouth, everybodies,
From the crying we have to do
Rite of passage, rite to doe
Stag pierces your major artery
Dont you explode, a plastic soldier
Taken apart by a grenade
So many new, desirable beings
To suckerpunch lips, hips, dips
Because we are coming of age.
And trap yourself in the unspeakable bird cage
Too ashamed to speak to anyone
Cries of joy arent too similar from pain.
But you talk to him anyway.
And it all works out.
(This is for my friend luke, if he ever comes on here reading my work)
YOU ARE READING
What He Told Me. Poetry
ŞiirI was told to share what I write by a guy. This is what I've done. Some of this is dark. Some of this is the inner workings of what is happening in my life. Im sorry for making you read this
