Dead
‘Flow of consciousness’ thing I started because I was bored, about abuse and death and possibly suicide, if you wanna stretch it, but why am I telling you how to interpret stuff?
xx
s-a
I
Dead and cold
On the rotting floor,
Cold as ice, seeing
Tomorrow.
Floating through the nothing that resides
Beneath your filtered skin, through doting
Hands
And crushed under weightless thumps.
It’s clean, you know
Of all your impurities
‘LOVE’,
That’s what he called you remember?
But you do remember, don’t you…
II
Sweetness, he loved you
Didn’t he?
He stroked your hair when you were sick,
He held you in the night
Listening to your heartbeat
While you would sweat
And wait for the downfall,
Fall
Down
Into the darkness where it all begins,
You didn’t have to wait too long.
III
Bludgeoned into meaning
And ruthless
Red and black
That let your memories shine,
In the shadows you wait
And wonder
Where
It
Stops.
IV
I wonder if you know now
Honey,
If you still feel the pain in your chest.
When he comes home at night
And sits on
Your
Bed, does he still hurt you baby
When you’re with me?
Rotting away,
Like you’ll do
In our fervor
And your
End.
He won’t hurt you here,
He can’t
You’re mine tonight.
Grace Rose
Love it
Instant favourite
thumbs up
xx
kossimarsalsa replied
wow danke schon, glad you like.
xx
s-a
JoeDolan 11 days ago
this is fantastic. i love the set-up of it (i get the feeling of a somewhat oxymoronic wickedness of jaggedness and smooth flowing phrases). just brilliant :D
kossimarsalsa replied 11 days ago
Thank you lots, I really appreciate it when people comment my writing because that’s probably what I feel most at home with. Yes, the flow of it sort of leans to like the mood of quiet menace, like in movies when you see the serial killer talking to his pray softly, so there is an intentional element of oxymoron between the harshness of the words/subject matter and their placement, although the broken sentences adds to the broken feel and stream of consciousness of it I think. Thanks again for commenting, I really like it when people do that.