My Dark Poems

The Five Senses At 1a.m.

it's one o'clock in the morning

and it smells of drugstore perfume, daisies

mixed with something attempting

to be sweeter than sugar

when its truly salt

swirled together with

arsenic and my vapid feelings.

it's one o'clock in the morning

and it feels like static, like the fuzziness

on television screens and the

sensation of the wires in my

brain snapping from this exhaustion

that was never there till i

gave up on the phantom innocence i'd been

clinging to in the hopes it

was still clinging onto the shreds of

clothing at my feet.

it's one o'clock in the morning

and it looks as though everything has been

painted monochrome. it's a series

of hazy greys and blurry whites, but

it's mostly a black delved so dark

i can't see anything through it; it's

not transparent enough to even

glance at the stars blinking down

toward the earth because the nighttime

won't let me see anything but mysteries

and untouched memories.

it's one o'clock in the morning

and it tastes like blood, so much

blood. there's metal on my tongue

and it's everywhere because there's no

knife anywhere, just this transpiercing

pain in my stomach and my lungs are

being sliced open and the gore of my guts

is spilling onto the tile floor and there's

blood covering my hands and my

face is cracking against concrete and

i'm puking rainbows again

and it tastes of heartsickness.

it's one o'clock in the morning

and it sounds like nothing. it's

the kind of nothing that

everyone notices: the breath that

stops when one gets the news

that their loved one is leaving

them for good, the nothing after

a performance that's left everyone

contemplating the universe and love

and whether i actually want to

live at all, the silence following

the coffin being shut. it's the nothingness

of sobs and heartbreak and

death. it's the sound of

loneliness - particularly mine.

      A/N; Not Mine.