post writing class highschool poems

discontent (around march 2018)

I am holding my heart in my hands.
She's sunlight so golden, burning so bright,
Though my nerves dull her warmth.
She is still my heart and forever will be.

I know this to be true.

I just can not for the life of me find an inkling of vitality.
Not even the songs I sing five times over with a renewed passion each time are pulling me from this emptiness.

There is nothing except my flesh.
I can easily strip that away.
Go along with my plan.
Take the knife, a Christmas present for protection, in my hand.
Plunge it into my wrists-
no, my jugular.
You'll fine it in the bath, paler than paper.
Glass eyes and wax lips.
I am losing empathy for my loved ones post my personal mortem.
I know and understand the great pain I will cause but I
I can't continue this waning facade.

You'll find it in the bath,
Hold it close and kiss its crown.
I almost wish I could return the affection.
You'll pump the pipes full of formaldehyde.
You'll lay it in silk and oak.
Your money and tears wasted on a doll.

Here's what you should do.
Slide it in the oven and free the flesh with fire and ash.
Lay the dust in a ceramic jar and discard it at first chance.
Forget about the flesh.

I am not worth your mourning.