Saturday, December 4, 2010

Suit Of Question Marks

All creativity has drained from my body. It ripped through my pores as if the tissue was caving in on itself. The poor puddle of grief has drenched the mattress where my blood is supposed to soak. Where did the originality go? Was it ever here? I've carved my offspring to the bone and still starve. Skeletons weep, washing my identity away in a murky river. Poetry is dead. I locked her in the shed and fed her nothing but scraps from dumpster dinners. Rigor mortis dances ballet in the garden where my ideas bloom. They're wilted roses mourning atop foam coffins

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