dust.
dry hands.
boxes.
boxes on the ground.
boxes on a pallet.
boxes on a conveyor belt.
boxes from a truck
in the shape of a box.
cardboard cuts my dry hands.
the blood becomes my moisturizer.
the boxes pile up.
the boxes crowd around.
applies pressure on my patience
but not on my wounds.
the blood spills.
the boxes pile high.
the dust gets compressed.
fills in every space.
fills the gaps between boxes.
fills the gaps between eyes and lids.
it burns to see.
to see these boxes pile over.
to see the blood fill the room.
swimming in my blood
i almost drowned
but the conveyor belt is my raft.
the pallets are vessels.
the boxes become pirates.
the dust keeps compressing
and we fight in the fog.
i wash my eyes out with blood.
not from this ocean
but from my everspilling hands
that keeps filling the room
thickening the fog
and drowning the pirates.
the ceiling gets closer.
death from above.
it takes no side.
the raft capsizes.
the pirates sink
and i'm holding my breath.
and as i bleed
my blood
my patience
my hope
the ceiling breaks
the roof collapses
and i breathe.
i lay on my back
as i flood this town.
not tears from my burning eyes.
not sweat from my dry skin.
i float away.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
a bottle
passed in circles
like the whore that she is.
she's disgusting by nature
so she puts on her face
in a fancy bottle
to imitate happiness
that we can hold in our hands.
she glosses her lips
and deodorizes her stench
with soda and lime.
she looks so pretty and inviting
though she's so bitter at heart.
the ice that floats around her body
glistens her chill.
who would have thought
that something that shines so bright
could feel so cold?
she freezes our mouths with hers
as we kiss her repeatedly.
she deceives us by burning our throats
like the whore that she is.
she numbs us.
otherwise
we'd feel the pain
from the glass on her lips.
we forget who we are
or what we're doing
we forget that we hate ourselves.
the only way we can ever look good
is by destroying our livers.
but the beauty is only temporary.
the damage is eternal.
we drop all our cares
and live in the moment
or sometimes
die in the ignorance.
she leaves us with headaches.
every sound we hear
makes us regret even meeting her.
she's so wet
and though we lap up all her juices
we're the ones left with dry mouths.
she makes us feel
as if we matter
so we take all that we can
from her
until she's gone.
until
yet again
we are left with nobody
but ourselves.
until she's just an empty shell.
until she's just
a bottle.
like the whore that she is.
she's disgusting by nature
so she puts on her face
in a fancy bottle
to imitate happiness
that we can hold in our hands.
she glosses her lips
and deodorizes her stench
with soda and lime.
she looks so pretty and inviting
though she's so bitter at heart.
the ice that floats around her body
glistens her chill.
who would have thought
that something that shines so bright
could feel so cold?
she freezes our mouths with hers
as we kiss her repeatedly.
she deceives us by burning our throats
like the whore that she is.
she numbs us.
otherwise
we'd feel the pain
from the glass on her lips.
we forget who we are
or what we're doing
we forget that we hate ourselves.
the only way we can ever look good
is by destroying our livers.
but the beauty is only temporary.
the damage is eternal.
we drop all our cares
and live in the moment
or sometimes
die in the ignorance.
she leaves us with headaches.
every sound we hear
makes us regret even meeting her.
she's so wet
and though we lap up all her juices
we're the ones left with dry mouths.
she makes us feel
as if we matter
so we take all that we can
from her
until she's gone.
until
yet again
we are left with nobody
but ourselves.
until she's just an empty shell.
until she's just
a bottle.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)