somagh royal violet bulbs bloom into death tick tocks blackness
walks like fire strands of silk dance unnoticed but for no color of such
red, blues, tinted hues. flash drive, slit wrists dont hurt just looks
like skin twitch to give birth, contracting or mouthing goodbyes
if far away now only making out lines.
red berries smeared and dried ontop pages of song, sonnettes
stretched canvas and twine, little razor boat
on your red sea you float, overflowing
onto a book of suicide notes.
negative correlation, atumnal equinox, geography notes ruined,
those swirling black spots, the same eyes of sorry or past reminisce the same ones
that you made love with.
so dont guitars write the sweetest songs? and to those can’t you sing along?
if i die wafting through the big dark sea, i will be taken in so easily.
like a little boat on top pages of history notes.
i think all the words would be to hard to read.