notlikethis

by Spoken Oh


Slumped

In the labyrinth of seconds.

Slumped.

I caught your screams
in a bottle of prozac pills
They echo -
just like your memory

Your torso, so carelessly
strewn over bath tubs
Holding life
in twitching veins and kitchen blades

Every blood-tuned scream
echoes dead romance
Slow dance til’
the pale blue turns scarlet

Sunken

Sunken in her wretched contempt.

Sunken

She hacks, limp in her anger
at the throbbing hand
that I once held
once so tight in our grasp

Her words trickle in residue
“suicide is quite attractive”
while she etches
her tombstone in scraped flesh

Love/hate with it’s scar
no pun, a knife’s potential
is outdone
mop the tiled floor in red fashions

Singed

Singed notebooks no longer read

Singed

My own sickness reflected
in blunt emotion;
to lip-lock
my own personal apocalypse

suicidal tendencies
, but you mean more to me
than a slashed wrist.

I love you
not like this.

People Mature into Mirages

by SpokenOh


I am,
Shakespeare in a world of imposters,
All the fakes I’ve come to hate,
Are words I must foster,
Into life.
Into light.

It’s a handful, reading this Braille to the masses
A landfill of opinions that I’ve put into caskets
And I will never mask it, with a flag or color.
I’ll wait for the reprise of life
Into summer.

Soapbox impressions, botox expressions,
shadows causing inflection.

Children of the corn; a pilgrim of the norm,
Scorning the mourning which takes place
After the storm.
After the war.

A glinting detection, a squinting erection
Of the sundial playing God in a dialogue
Of regression.

A child smiles, says,
“People mature into mirages, collages,
mosaics of the Ancients. Wait patient,
sunrise will make truth blatant, as
we stand vacant to belief.”