Clothes for Dying
I was wearing clothes that my blood would never match.
They said it wasn’t over; ‘tis was nothin’ but a scratch.
I’m told that I was nothing so I made a perfect catch;
A high end alcoholic with no way to pull the hatch.
I think I’m suicidal; better call and make a lapse.
Lie and say the drugs have pulled another relapse.
Oh, no, the story’s flawed, gotta make to fill the gaps.
I think I’m suicidal, so you call and say, “Perhaps.”
I better pull out a dress that is suitable for bed.
When you pull an object for the dents inside my head.
Something melancholy when the blood is dripping red.
You will join too, when you finally sip the lead.
YOU ARE READING
Shattered Amour Propre
PoetryThis is a collection of some of the poems from my book, Shattered Amour Propre. There are a variety of formats made out of raw emotion. Come get stabbed in the heart, collect pollen from the flowers for a smile, and cry about the tragedies that have...
