deepundergroundpoetry.com
gun shot wound to the head iii
I want a .45 caliber under my chin
aiming upwards
this is just the mechanism
to flush me of all disease and scar
in one simple motion
of the one index finger
changes the entire story
where my torment ends
theirs begins
it truely is a selfish artform; suicide
but like all art, it is necessary
to clense in the artist
and sometimes cause an uneasiness in those
left to clean up the pain
and paint
body sprawled out haphazard
dead weight
the walls and floor my canvas
but they will send in the white and hooded saints
to take the body away
and to cleanse what they need to
to hide my masterpiece
it hides
it doesn't disappear
I haunt that which is sanitized and painted over
do the new tenants even realize
did they read the paper that day
did I even make it to the paper this time
my epitaph is the thousand pages I left behind
will the overseers bring them to light
or will I be another that got swept under the rug
because I couldn't put forth the effort
for even one more day
and the bereaved counldn't bring themselves
to publish such smut
my last will and testament a failed whisper
that dies out when the wind blows
I am in the sea
or in the breeze off the top of a mountain
will they remember
if no one else
my last moments still pray, in some hopeless wish
that my efforts do not become forgotten
by those I leave behind
my energy
or soul
blasted out of my body
liked the blood did out of the top of my head
and and my pieces
like my ashes
find their way to disperse
and hopefully find their way to a new home
in the hearts of the left-behind
until thir energy too bursts from the shells
and the cycle, like a gear, turns another tooth
until no one is left to be remembered
do we echo behond this?
aiming upwards
this is just the mechanism
to flush me of all disease and scar
in one simple motion
of the one index finger
changes the entire story
where my torment ends
theirs begins
it truely is a selfish artform; suicide
but like all art, it is necessary
to clense in the artist
and sometimes cause an uneasiness in those
left to clean up the pain
and paint
body sprawled out haphazard
dead weight
the walls and floor my canvas
but they will send in the white and hooded saints
to take the body away
and to cleanse what they need to
to hide my masterpiece
it hides
it doesn't disappear
I haunt that which is sanitized and painted over
do the new tenants even realize
did they read the paper that day
did I even make it to the paper this time
my epitaph is the thousand pages I left behind
will the overseers bring them to light
or will I be another that got swept under the rug
because I couldn't put forth the effort
for even one more day
and the bereaved counldn't bring themselves
to publish such smut
my last will and testament a failed whisper
that dies out when the wind blows
I am in the sea
or in the breeze off the top of a mountain
will they remember
if no one else
my last moments still pray, in some hopeless wish
that my efforts do not become forgotten
by those I leave behind
my energy
or soul
blasted out of my body
liked the blood did out of the top of my head
and and my pieces
like my ashes
find their way to disperse
and hopefully find their way to a new home
in the hearts of the left-behind
until thir energy too bursts from the shells
and the cycle, like a gear, turns another tooth
until no one is left to be remembered
do we echo behond this?
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