poetry for the poetic: 5

LXXVII

i clutched at my own smile,
trying to rip off the grin.
i left marks down my face
along the torn up skin.

i clutched at broken promises
as i fell out of the sky.
a shooting star with no wish
and no means to cry.

i clutched at every memory of you
i'd photographed in my head.
ripping them apart,
till the papers bled.

but most of all, i clutched at my heart
to cease its insufferable beating.
a creature with no regard
for such little meaning.