the death of a poet

a pen and a paper
were her flesh and her soul
the ink ran as blood through tales that sold
the flowing river that turned into gold
the crowd that warmed as her words were sold
but no one knew why her mind shivered in the cold

a pen and a paper
were her flesh and her soul
but no one knew why her eyes turned old
the life torn out with money and fame
the words themselves no longer the same
the poet herself losing sight ...
difficult it became to wright
bringing her mind out of day into night

a pen and a paper
were her flesh and her soul
the baren poet now deceased in her core

Weight

the most beautiful day
is the most terrible
the clearest skies
are the most clouded
the darkest hole
is full of light
the starving child
full of life
the calmest sea
is the most fearsome tempest
the lightest love
leads to the deepest hate
the shortest second
is the longest eternity
the softest curve
is the sharpest edge
the ficticious story
that resonates truth
the smallest words
that contain the greatest power
the reality
is disolved into nothingness


she carved these words into the sky and watched them float in a circled orb
again
again
and again
they all came together
and finally
she was able to breath
for the weight of the world had been released

Euphoria

i threw up the other day and i experienced this delusional ten seconds of beautiful euphoria
could it be possible that life itself is similar?
its a long time of intense uncomfortable sickness caused by unreliguished motion
or possibly something rotten you put inside of you?
but then after a grueling laborious journey you end up releashing the sick spew to be followed by
lightness
clarity
and air