Yes, I have become an emo poet. Whatever. Personal bullshit compels me to write things that reflect the confusion crap going on in my head, even if said poems don’t make sense.
Do with this what you will…
dead in night
blank, empty of voices:
A rustling — rodent,
scourge of the earth.
Black pierced by sword eyes.
Piercing souls, life itself.
Numb like the corpses,
the mother who loses everyone to a war.
Death streaking on the walls of hearts.
The pieces broken,
the puzzle collapsed by moisture.
Quiet chambers where day and night are suspended by nothing.