Crybaby

crybaby

 

on rainy days,

half mad,

I worry holes into my skin,

mix blood with muddy water,

and write poems about Hell

on paper trees.

 

wash your arthritic hands

in my innocence,

use my nerve endings

as an ashtray,

stomp hateful craters

into my whispered forest.

 

some people call it abuse;

I call it good, raw material.

 

see,

it’s not as much a poetry collection

as it is a series of tiny obituaries.

 

beyond the blunt trauma,

after the blood dries on the hanky,

when the ears are still whistling,

it’s easy to understand

 why all the best poets

are dead.

Reviews

[EMF]

A kick in the head of anyone who just likes things pink and fluffy. It was like being mugged by a My Little Pony, high on Crack and hallucigens, While a Care Bear preached of Jesus offering Salvation, while popping Viagra, as an accolyte blew him beneath the altar. Mind expanding stuff that shows what a genius can do in tackeling Salvation. Thansl for not letting this place ever be boring.

[Backlight Burner]

Wow, i am not even sure what to say. I really enjoyed reading this!!

fav part-
see,
it’s not as much a poetry collection
as it is a series of tiny obituaries.

Job well done!!!

[John Jackson (El Juero)]

I am generally slow on the uptake, but I absolutely get this. In 'civilized' society, the Poet is always the one closest to the flame.
Real nice piece, RG.

[Divinity Sleeps in This]

Props, I could have sworn this was your brother. Glad you joined :)

[Robin]

the Kanji for a Tree and a Book differ by only the addition of one brush stroke ..

[roarke]

BAM. over the fence.

"see,
it’s not as much a poetry collection
as it is a series of tiny obituaries."

yeah man.

[SkinlessFrank]

This one travels right down the optic nerve into the heart and back up to the tear ducts. Yeah, those bruises and cuts still hurt, even though they seldom bleed these days. Great sadness and salvation in this piece.