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

Us

God have mercy on the High Street suckers and their liquid sorrows on tap. Yuppies exhausted from the endless prostitution of anxiety stumble on straight sidewalks, suicide bombers ignorant of their ultimate fate. We're already in Heaven. All our mistakes turned to angels when they inhaled the burning forest. They blessed us with blemishes and tainted minds. We once rode into the sunset with a rusted pick-up truck while the jury gave chase in sports cars. For a split second, life exploded into a mess of contradictions only to reappear in the shape of a flower on the their mass grave. We deserve no less. Life has lost its edge and the ghosts keep spiraling into futility.