Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?
Today my nails are red; so are my shorts,
And, as I shaved my arms at CCH,
That colour flowed again. And, glad to see
My blood come dripping down, I slashed again.
Oh, fire-engine red looked fair to me--
But then I thought back, and I bit my tongue,
Recalled those fearful flames that burned us down--
Barely an hour before. Then came the rue,
And other flow resumed, splash in the sink.
Oh, what a brutal, savage thing to do!
I'm glad I dropped the razor...in a way,
As fury rang again in mem'ry's ear.
Self-care, you'd said? But I don't care. No. Not at all.
I missed those red flags--yes, I missed each one.
Me? Live and learn? No, dear; I fall and fall.
In time, I blotted eyes and all the nicks.
I blew my nose, I wiped the sink all dry;
I picked my bags up; left behind my hope;
Departed, eyes red. Left us there to die.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (1 so far!)
This poem is very good imho. Like submittable to a magazine or something, good. Pain is such a good motivator for art. Well good isn't the right word necessarily but the burning makes us productive. I hope that excising some of it helps you cope as much as it helps me.
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