i write massacres now; poetry is too pretty, too easy.
my legacy is lukewarm
like chai left forgotten on a Monday morning;
gulped down in bitter swallows
and not sipped like i intended.
you meant for it to soothe,
it burns down the walls of your throat,
the bite from ginger is too much for you,
you’d prefer honey coating your lungs.
i write grey words,
they shackle your limbs to truth,
bright hues which spell out lies,
are what you crave.
i have nothing left to give,
my fingers have a thousand cuts
and my art is soaked in blood now;
i don’t have metaphors to throw at you
there’s police that monitors worth now,
i’m afraid i murdered illusions
and my poetry is evidence.
i write massacres now,
poetry is too pretty, too easy.
you’d remember me later i believe,
like paying homage to ashes;
for my art is dead;
my words a coffin for the questions i bury.
so I’ll leave my name on a napkin,
i hope it floats through your mind
when you drown your tears in stale coffee,
you chose over my morning chai.
i’ll leave my name on paper plates,
hoping you like the taste of it.
there are lemons squeezed in there,
i know you’ll tire of the saccharine lies.
I’ll leave my name in places
where you like to go alone,
so i can creep up on you
run you over and drive off, no headlights.
there’s madness that runs through my blood;
it seeks to possess a place in history, in art.
i want to leave a piece of me behind,
something that survives the cruel summers;
art that talks of trauma and jagged cuts,
and not just love and pretty flowers.
art that survives the tribulations of time.
time is liquid, slipping through crevices,
which mar my being.
time dampens my life,
like a hungry wolf trailing it’s prey,
time pulls me over,
i need more of it.
i need time,
for my legacy is lukewarm;
it begs for me to water it’s hungry roots,
it begs to blossom to life.
in search of venus 