huzzah for poorly written late-night poetry!
(sarcasm, if you didn't catch my drift)
this gal won't be getting a wink of sleep.




FALLEN FLOWERS


people die,
feelings die,
and you feel its constant withering.

they say,
__"it’s okay, life goes on, darlin’”
to make themselves feel, perhaps, a bit better.

but they often leave off the part stating,
__“until it stops.”
__“and, darlin’…it always stops.”

no matter,
it’s beautiful watching the comatose scream with writhing silence.
inanimate silence that only becomes animate by means of slithering through the beating hearts of unexpected others.

the others—the ones still sprouting flowers so that they may, too, wither—-peer at the silence.
they feel it screaming.
we all do.

and then we part.
and we forget the fallen flowers.
which, upon each waking, become buried beneath another.
and so on.
until we, ourselves, emerge a fallen one.

but it’s the dying that fills us up,
and we don’t even know it.
you can feel so empty in your belly bloated full of obsolete flowers.

your bones are heavy, but frail.
and your skin looks like milk, but is always lukewarm.
the mirrors, broken or otherwise, reflect the same shade of honey colored eyes muddled with specks of impervious amber.

and you turn your pillow to the other side,
and each time you blink your languid eyes, another flower dies.
then, voice waning with the moon, you say,
__“je suis désolé, je suis désolé.”