deepundergroundpoetry.com
My Dearest Murderer
She makes corners
Rounded
She makes the lines
Shift on my face
She makes the grays
Look greener and the
Blues look clear
I can see
Myself through them
She gives my days
A purpose
She lends me
Her energy
Or rather I
Steal it
She makes me
Happy
She pulls my loose
Threads tight
I hold her in
My left hand
She makes me want
To scream
And throw things
Over hillsides
That I will never
See again
She makes me
Want to sing to
The moon
And watch the sunset
Until the sunrise
And kick the dirt
Under my feet
And scrape my hands
On tree branches
And burn myself
On hot glue
And get blisters
On my fingers
And write pages and
Pages of poetry that can
Never see the light of day
She makes
Me want to
Live
She will be the death of me.
Rounded
She makes the lines
Shift on my face
She makes the grays
Look greener and the
Blues look clear
I can see
Myself through them
She gives my days
A purpose
She lends me
Her energy
Or rather I
Steal it
She makes me
Happy
She pulls my loose
Threads tight
I hold her in
My left hand
She makes me want
To scream
And throw things
Over hillsides
That I will never
See again
She makes me
Want to sing to
The moon
And watch the sunset
Until the sunrise
And kick the dirt
Under my feet
And scrape my hands
On tree branches
And burn myself
On hot glue
And get blisters
On my fingers
And write pages and
Pages of poetry that can
Never see the light of day
She makes
Me want to
Live
She will be the death of me.
Published 1st Oct 2024
Author's Note
She has killed who I thought myself to be. The mourning period will be short, a celebration of life; an hopeful ending. I finally see myself in every picture of the future, with her along side me (or at least over a landline).
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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1st Oct 2024 3:06pm
