Drip Drop Blood
Drip
Drop
Blood
Drips
Down my wrist
To the crook of my elbow
As I hold it up
And stare
Stare at the wound that doesn’t hurt
Drip
Drop
Blood
Flows down my palm
To the tips of my fingers
Away from my skin
Drips from the wound that doesn’t hurt.
Drip
Drop
Blood
You don’t hurt
Not as much as the wound
That isn’t there
Burning Muse
Lalala…. I had this entire post typed out with cool pictures and poems and whatnot but the stupid browser crashed on me so that is it.
This post was infinitely better the first time around. That being said, lemme get to my original point.
My book Burning Muse is free on Kindle till midnight tonight – January 11th.
There are better ways to advertise, but I am too lazy to follow through with them twice.
Happy reading!
Thorns
Thorns are pretty too
But maybe not as pretty as you
As you lie frozen upon death
Bleeding out
But my knife was not as big
As the thorn you stabbed my heart with
Pros of Having No Artistic Talent
You could draw *this* and still be proud enough to post it online.
😀
You
You
are
me.
But I am not you.
You cannot see
This truth.
You cannot see me.
But I can see you.
I can see you not seeing me.
I can see you not thinking of me.
I can see you not knowing me.
But I know you.
I know you like I know me.
You are me.
But
I
am
not
You.
I am not you.
And I don’t think I will ever be.
Burning Muse: Out now!
Here’s a book. Written by me. With poems. That have lines. And words. And more words.
And yes, it makes more sense than this post.
Haiku-ing (is that even a real word?)
Winter
Frozen fingers, toes
Frozen today, tomorrows
I hate winter snows
….aaand that’s it! I don’t Haiku often, the managing of 5-7-5 syllables is too much work for me so I must really be out of thing to post if I’ve taken up Haiku-ing
Houses
Glass houses
Are at least sturdier than card ones
Wind is not enough to shatter them
It takes a stone to bring it down
Card houses
Are at least less cruel than glass ones
For their cards adrift only break my heart
But not break my skin and leave a scar
Card houses house my dreams
Fragile weak and hopeless dreams
But I live my life in glass houses
I live my life waiting for the shards to fall down on me
Bored. Thinking. Bored.
An extempore slam poem because I am bored. Extremely 
____
Bored.
Thinking.
Bored.
Thinking some more.
But that doesn’t help.
My thoughts are boring too.
Staring at the ceiling,
What is there to think of?
Of life?
Of death?
Of love?
Of hope?
What thoughts remain I haven’t thought of before?
What thoughts remain I haven’t thought of before that are worth thinking?
Bored.
Of thinking.
Of thinking I’m bored.
Bored of fueling my boredom.
I’m bored.
I’m bored.
I’m bored.
But only until I’m not bored anymore.
shambhawipwrites 