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Literature Text
her skin moans at its stitches
until she gasps for formaldehyde breaths
out of stiff sterile lungs
she waits for eyes to meet the unhinged
porcelain bones that rattle neath red
but shadows have swallowed her and her friends,
the ones who lie on metal with her, who,
with pianist fingers, trace her spinal cord like it’s braille
but she doesn't feel their chilled white fists dig like roots
neath her canvas flesh
or taste the stale flavor of a cadaver, anymore
some lost boys and a few misplaced gods laugh in glass jars,
laugh like the first twinge at a scalpel’s slice
they all watch her unravel through their yellow looking-glasses
with a formalin grin, watch as she's
lulled to sleep in white sheets.
until she gasps for formaldehyde breaths
out of stiff sterile lungs
she waits for eyes to meet the unhinged
porcelain bones that rattle neath red
but shadows have swallowed her and her friends,
the ones who lie on metal with her, who,
with pianist fingers, trace her spinal cord like it’s braille
but she doesn't feel their chilled white fists dig like roots
neath her canvas flesh
or taste the stale flavor of a cadaver, anymore
some lost boys and a few misplaced gods laugh in glass jars,
laugh like the first twinge at a scalpel’s slice
they all watch her unravel through their yellow looking-glasses
with a formalin grin, watch as she's
lulled to sleep in white sheets.
Literature
Underappreciated
A moth is beautiful
but none choose to praise it.
Instead, monarchs flutter, and suddenly,
twenty-four lines are written about how
its amber coloring
reminds you of autumn's heartbreaks
and winter's futile approach, seizing
the broken vessel you tried to tape
together, but to no avail;
its black outline
reminds you of the eyeliner she wore
day after day, all perfect and pristine,
until one day,
you found her among rosebushes & lilacs
crying out "Why does it always rain?"
Where is her sun?
its slender antennae
reminds you of stilts, splintery and all,
Literature
my neighbour has a garden.
my neighbour has a garden
& not many flowers bloom,
but he tends to it with great care –
his garden is bereft of birds,
stripped of glee or sunlight,
& rain always seems to bathe the ground
his daughters don’t come by anymore;
it’s just me in his backyard,
listening to his war stories told to no one –
he tells them to the wind with tears in his eyes,
(begging someone to please
“listen to me”)
but little does he know that the wind
has a name
Literature
night terrors
it is only when my neighborhood sleeps
underneath the orange lamplight
and layers of indigo clouds,
that i notice that the house’s walls
are spreading further and further apart,
and the majority of the rooms
are empty and friendless,
collecting dust like hoarders.
the silence buzzes in my ears
and settles on my carcass shoulders
like a vulture: i grasp frantically
at the hum of cars passing
and the soft thud of my sister
turning over in her sleep
to remind myself that
there are seven billion others,
even if they aren’t here with me.
i start to feel the space between my fingers
and the nothing wrapping around my body,
and a de
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I'm sorry I haven't posted in while, deviants. Just so you know, brain dump. 
? Thank-you! I would very much appreciate feedback. 
? Thank-you! I would very much appreciate feedback. © 2014 - 2024 LeftUnfinished
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I love this! The last stanza was my favorite, well done. 