You are a heartless scoundrel,
an abortion of men,
a sleight of hand card trick
and I was your con of a lifetime.
You are an evil aberration,
A pervasive mistake
inhabiting the body of an angel.
You have ruined nature,
beauty and all that is good –
For your face is fair,
and your eyes are perfect stars
in the black sky of your heart
and I no longer trust the great sea,
wide forests or butterflies on roses
for they remind me of you.
In a broken hourglass
with sand falling like rain,
I committed myself to hell;
and only then in that moment
When I knew my soul was condemned
did I finally believe.
Not with some hopeless desire
that to hold him in my heart
would save myself from retribution.
Because I felt in my bones
at the time of the sin
my blood boiling,
my heart breaking
and divinity coming in.
Oh no, I have died again.
My body is breaking down
inside the hollow ground
I can feel the soil,
clogging up my lungs
and turning my heart to gold.
I don’t know who killed me;
He was a coward, I imagine.
Who stabbed me in the back
then sent my mind below
Dying is a crime
i’m well versed in.
I fell down and down
and over and over.
I hadn’t yet chosen which way to die
not like before.
I found a bottle filled
like a rattle toy,
I had as a child
it emptied in minutes,
Then He revived me and
like Cain I killed him.
My hands now moving,
my blood is boiling,
my finger prints clawing up,
wasting a life.
Our synapses are hopeful,
pulling me into the air.
I rose up,
saw the trees
covered in blood
And walked away.
Don’t you worry, I will die again.
But that time better
More beautiful and
Fall into the water and hopefully
the lonely moon won’t bring me back
Coffee and roses beaming through
cracked walls of ivy and stone.
Like wine glasses emptying slowly
bleeding into the floor.
Give me a glass, give me neon.
Give me sultry desire wrapped up in glitter.
Burnt out cars, window tainted sour
driving into the midnight sunset.
Trust me when I say, stay away from the moors,
all that lays there are death and lonely skeletons
Children who won’t grow up,
they lay lost, oh please give me hope.
Smelling coffee and roses,
singing lost stories.
Someone once cried into the dying night.
For candles and wet witches to light
or wait for the wildfires to catch
and save their life
or kill them first.
They would burn in a white fire,
like that of a broken girl’s eyes
waiting for her heart
to be lit up like a cigarette.
Wishes and dreams betrayed them,
the fire took over
but somewhere out in the lost forest
someone else cried out,
over her stolen innocence
and forgotten life,
so, the dying night
became day instead.
Bury me in ash
while you drain my throat,
water the roses with my blood
and feed the sunflowers with my bones.
Dry me out until the skin is gone
and my heart has turned to stone.
Then rip it out and eat it
while I lay down on my own.
Go far away
swim into the sea.
With my heart in your hand
and my blood in your mouth.
Come back one day
and raise me from hell.
I shall sit up from my shallow grave
a shadow of a girl.
Lost in a state of dead.
I don’t hold grudges,
not now, not ever.
if someone shows me how little I mean to them;
I just stop caring.
They leave my mind
to even utter their name in the remote parts of my subconscious.
But it’s not real.
Its not sustainable
and one day very soon
the flood gates will open
and it will crush me.
Give me an armistice,
put a red cross around my neck,
lock me down in the cellar,
until the shelling begins again.
A pistol in one hand.
A machine gun in the other.
I dance on my veins
as I block the blood from the tower,
they say a solider never leaves the war ground,
not truly anyway.
A part of their mind attaches to the bullet they shot over no mans land,
My bullet is a lighter
and my poppy is made of a knife.
The red dye bleeds down into the shower
while a pill tore apart my stomach.
There was a thunderstorm in my room
they day of the broken chimes,
the ending dream broke through
and you woke into my nightmare,
I am Ted Hughes
listen to the way she speaks;
it’s like the tapping of my feet
on the hell in the floor,
I heard the blackbird sing
a poem of the queen
like a mocking one
wishing it was trapped and free,
I am Ted Hughes
I killed the love of my life
or did her madness curse
his life, until it suffocates mine.
The lost girl is free to run around the world,
surrounded by forgotten tears and broken dreams;
with her glitter stained bruises
and nails painted with cigarette smoke,
she walks alone, a damaged little girl
everybody knows she’s ruined to her core.
The lost girl can do what she pleases,
takes what’s given to her, looking out for love
in pools of glass shards;
dancing to the beat of a broken heart,
her eyes too dazed to make her way back home.
The lost girl is getting younger each year.
Regressing into a little child.
Needing a saviour or a saint
to get her out of deathly dreams.
The lost girl is in a broken-down car.
Driving to her utopia;
she’s about to crash.