Not nice

I don't want to talk to you
and try to make you smile,
I only want to steal your bones
and bury them in my backyard.

I don't want to feign interest
or pretend that we're alike,
I want to turn you into a wax statue instead
and put a lampshade on your head.

I don't want your superficial friendship
or your mask of 'always nice'.
I want to extract the sky from your eyes,
put it in a small jar, tie it around my neck,
or make tiaras out of your fingers
and paint my eyelashes with your blood.

I want the parts of you that no one else would want
Even though you no longer want anything of mine.

Industrial

A poet is like a machine
transforming heartbreak into verse
and sadness
and excitement
and hope
In go all the feelings
out come words
on paper, on screen
like beads on a string
more like life-lines
preventing the whole knitted fabric
of our reality
from unraveling.

A poet is not a machine
you may feed it the same raw materials
still the outcome may not be the same
a sidelong, furtive glance
would inspire sonnets one evening
and a full blown passionate kiss
won't even be worth a mention
in passing
another morning.

A poet is like a machine
It won't produce anything
if you don't feed anything to it
and will break if you overload it.
It won't get bored doing the same thing
over and over again
even though it chafes and grinds
and wears out it's bearings.

A poet is not a machine
Eventually it will get sick of
writing about the same thing...

The Aftermath

At this point thinking about him is dissecting a corpse.
I wish I could just move on but I feel trapped.
He was, in a way, my escape
every time the world closed in on me.
Now he's just another dangerous swamp.
A kind word, here and there
lets me breathe
for a little bit
but then I sink deeper yet again.

I finally took some pictures of him
and noticed some details that I didn't know before
like he had freckles on his arms
and looked a little sad behind every smile.

This is me projecting, finding entry wounds
with no exit ones and no bullets inside.
This is me wishing it was as painful for him
as it was for me
and I know it was
he said as much
but he was not talking about the getting over part.

I wish he looked the same 
but had a more open mind.
I wish he looked almost the same
but maybe without the ugly shorts.
I wish he were a different person 
but still had the same hands and the same eyes.
I never really liked him that much the way he was
probably that's what he knew all along...

There is no closure in an autopsy,
I'm writing just to get things out of my head.
You learn what you learn,
but the dead don't just get up and walk again.
All I can do for now is wait
for another distraction
or better yet,
a proper reason
to get out of this morgue for good.