i have dreamed of a place
stuck between your thoughts
melting into one infallible death
of a character you never liked anyways
so I'll sit in the tiny chair
it's made of wood and heartbeats
ones from before we cared
and loved our brains away
it's a burning tongue on a spit
so sticky from the piano keys
that id play in our castillo
until the moon kissed us goodnight
champagne heirs on golden thrones
made by distress
id try my best to calm the wind
but even god has unwanted plans
hand me your old cardigan
a swarm of missing pieces
like a beat of a drum
I'd keel over till you smiled
turn the tv on
genocide of the last great americans
what i could give to give you life
stored in a fresh bottle of your own
it's a burning tongue
where the gold peels off your eyes
make me wonder where the sun went
because you're still here with me
I'd have my choice of life
with the tone of your movements
so i have something left to give
until my mouth turns of ash
YOU ARE READING
if not human
Poetrythe anthology of emotion, the passing of life, the epilogue of pure, unfiltered regret this is "if not human" poems, prose and stories from the dark
