Pocketful-Of-Corpses

The shards of broken promises have become the blade against my skin.

She opened her mouth wide and swallowed the scissors, set on cutting the negativity out of her body.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That th

  Broken heart, broken glass. The littlest shards always do the most painful damage.

You caught my tear drops with the tip of your thumb, knowing well that you stole my heart with every smile and some breathtaking gazes in your emotional, honey-brown eyes. I can't believe you're gone, building the bridge of your dreams. I guess I just wish I could release myself from the seams, tangled within the war-zone of a girl you're leaving behind. I collapsed into your arms tonight and I cried like no tomorrow. "I'll miss you," you said, and although I tried to swallow the sadness and bury you into my soul to keep you there forever, You're still gone.

He courses through my veins, Entering me like an animal. Ravaging my soul, his nails run Over my steaming flesh like daggers. I succumb to his mighty power, Never wanting this dance to cease.

Journalism. "Poetic spirits, free minds." It was five minutes before the bell, and Ms. Grant pulled me aside from the rest of the pupils- minds boggling for the next line, the next rhyme. She opened her mouth and out poured a waterfall of judgement, her red lipstick as thin as starving lines, painting her words crimson. She said, "I love your work, Jessica, but- I am little concerned about the content. It's rather dark and I enjoy it, I do, but it can't exist here. Happiness only. We have a curriculum that we need to follow. What would the district think?" I looked back at the class, and I felt my blood rush to my cheeks. There they sat,

Sometimes I wish that I had the courage to step up and jump from the ledge, spread my frail, aching wings, and finally soar. I would finally put the old, ruffled things to some use, and fly off, inhaling the crystal stars like ambrosia. I would become no less than infinite. I'd be free. I'd be free and long gone, finding new wonders. Rejoicing within the heavens, leaving doubts to rot inside their shackles. And most of all, I would lovingly kiss the concrete.

I wrapped myself within your fragrance, infatuated by your perfect, gorgeous scent. (If only I had smelled the bullshit sooner.)

I can feel the sadness wash over me, burying me beneath a raging ocean wave. I let myself drift within depression's sea and I become Poseidon's slave.