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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry


Source: Adults

Author: jonny graham

Title: I love the smell of cliches in the morning .

I thought picking up the pieces would bleed the demons dry ,
I really thought it might help ,
but all it did was generate more hope .
For other mortals that is what gets them through ,
but not with me .
I was just so insecure
in my new spun web of venomed mediocrity .
The hope is slowly killing me .
It is a razor edge cutting deep
within my fragile quivering flesh .
Gliding past the stretchered tendons ,
hunting for that crimsoned poison
that steams through my dying body .
( don't fool yourselves , this is not a love poem ) .
So how cliched is crimson
as a reference to blood , huh ?
I am a cliche !
The act of writing brought him back ,
the man I once admired
and called associate .
So noble and righteous
within decision .
The best interests enacted with surgical precision ,
costing me my life ,
massed out on everything .
Should I hate you , or your careless mother ?
Can I trust you ?
With the belief that you were always
doing the right thing .
Why do you think you are me ?
You share my lack of hope .
I wish I could do a Ritchie !
I wish I could do a Kurt !
Flood the room with hazy pink mist ,
but I can't because I wouldn't get my wish .
I want to be here after the event ,
to stew in the hot-tub of carnage ,
and smear the coagulating blood around ,
you know - Charlie Manson style .
Die Pig ! 666 ! and all that family shit .
While you all gawp and goon ,
and take camera pics ,
and scream that it is way too late
for reading the writing on the walls .
Oh yes , I am slowly dying ,
the hope is killing me .
I really thought I was destined for so much more ,
I used to be such a glory whore !

I was created from monumental moments ,
just like the bullet holes in holocaust walls ,
or the grinning teeth in murdered tiger skins .
Those moments may appear small to some ,
but they make junkies for the high of supremacy .
It has been so long since I had a fix ,
I spent too long sitting on the fences ,
and now I capitulate without the hit .
It's been ages , half a lifetime ,
since I experienced a miracle
on God's battlefield ,
on the far side of this earth .
Seeing the birth of all my sons ,
now I only see them occasionally .
And the hope is slowly killing me .
I wish I was sedated with contentment ,
greedy for more , wanting more , deserving more ,
writing more has made me manic ,
nay , make that bi-polar !
I want to step out in front of morning traffic ,
that same action we have all thought about
but will not talk about ,
because it's taboo , like incest or cannibalism .
I am all washed up , tainted , trash ,
not good enough to love ,
too bad to hate .
I am slowly dying , riven with tumours ,
nervously broken down at Heaven's closing gate .
And you are now inconsequential ,
choking back your bile and lack of faith !

My spirit drifts
and waits impatiently in wreaths of mist .
Hope is slowly killing you , and me too .
I have to fight to stay here ,
to finish my work ,
to end this wayward mission .
Suicide is not my fix ,
not my answer to murder of the soul .
If you find me sleeping deeply ,
do not resuscitate ,
I am dying piece by piece ,
and the passing makes me whole .
I fall bleeding ,
and the weeping words
spew rhetoric from forked tongues ,
I am oh so slowly dying ,
devastation dogs me in my dreams
and the hope is just prolonged .
I am really slowly dying.
Listen , I hear angels
singing deathly songs .

Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry

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