I gather flowers from the fields
that smell like clumps of rotted weeds;
they crumble in my hands and fall
upon the dirty floor.
I follow men who comfort me
with words only the blind can see;
they turn and in their eyes I find
shadows without form.
I feel my feet sink in the mud;
I wander into dripping blood;
I look around and all I see is
Whenever I look at the sun
I want to hide, I need to run, but
no-one sings a new song
unless their hands are tied.
A Priest creeps from his hiding place
wearing one more eyeless face, so
do you think to kill him
would be the road to Hell?
There’s a woman who hates me;
she’s blinder than the blind can be, I
don’t know hate that eats away
the souls of many men.
Another scribbles with her pen
to make me disappear again,
I reach out in her darkness, and
I wish she’d take my hand.
We need to ride upon the sea
to make friends of our enemies, as
when you swim in darkness you
learn to share their pain.
I’m trapped inside a rusted box
filled with rusted broken clocks;
how can I bear to touch the cracks
that seal me up inside.
Every man has seen the place;
every woman sees through lace;
every gift talks through the wrapper;
life’s just another pimp.
I’ve sat in houses with the dead
where cobwebs hang, where nothing’s said, where
yellow candles, like cold fingers,
point to the attic door.
Some say only twisted lives
would picture women cut with knives; I’ve
never drawn a woman without
piercing my own flesh.
I knew a man when I was young,
a woman with a silver tongue, they
taught me all I know about
the powder and the spoon.
O woman, are you done with me?
And is it time to say goodbye?
I scrub my skin for hours but
I cannot rub them out.
And have you finished with my life?
And have you heated up the knife?
Flowers when you pluck them out
smell like rotting weeds.
“CREATIVE WRITING AND POETRY”