Hearts like mine never know how to bleed.
They drink all night
in the blasting bass,
drowning in the red haze.
They yell throughout,
burning their walls
and trying to get rid of the demons.
They're too happy to be murky,
too heavy to walk,
too afraid to love.
For they're clogged with withered violets.
The pain's a little, less than a bee-sting —
lingering too long before fading
away in the streetlight.
The violets crook in the early snow,
damped in ominous naivety and ichor.
But it never hurts hard.
They're a little inhumane,
too young to get damaged, but get so anyway.
They've never learned anything
but to drink all night 'til the wind stings
and the horizon screams another morning.
The poor violets bloom in the asphalt-bitter hailstorm,
Trampled in their heavy boots — it's too dark here.
The flowers battle in the savage game;
The petals come off their fragile bodies
'til the red wine turns into a void answer.
These hearts wait for someone to come and call
and bring the pieces back to bloom in the spring.
But the hailstorm has got it all.
It's another world of unshed ichor under
the unpainted sky.
The violets' screams fade in the bloody fields into another void echo.
-a cruel game of drunken sorrows and savage truths.
——————————————
A/N: But the truth is... the little star at the corner wants to get painted in rich yellow. Mind doing that?
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
