Shaking you in metaphorical hands,
My own hands wringing in duplicity
And on the phone keeps calling of your ending.
I thought drugs were bad
Bringing apart a mansion to a mausoleum
Making what is left of you the dust and ash.
I thought you were strong, with bright shoulders
And beautiful eyes that survived without ruining yourself.
Whenever I spoke of blade bading
You got that look in your eye- disgust
But then pictures don't lie
And your absences read further.
You're falling apart, and maybe you cannot see the pigment bunches raining snow storming off your skin,
But I see as each eyelash falls, it's just another part of you on the ground,
And yes, my premonitions have been so very false but still
dreading thickly your headstone that promises you
only fifteen years of life.
Dear friend,
Haven't you learned from the bleeding eyes around you,
that every single one of them is wrong?
Jara
There she was, glossy beautiful eyes
Youth ebullient and burning that nobody wanted to hold-
And passed off to hands that damaged at her beautiful tea pot
She grew into what you could call a woman
And slowly began to tear herself apart-
The smoke filters in hazy of the picture
And the slang beneath it might help take from the actual effect
But when it comes down to it inhaling your tombstone,
Was what you honestly did.
I hate to make assumptions- as memory ties to that and I can see-
The cutting short of any memories you did tail-
But it does seem with your beautiful eyes
You're looking for help and nobody has the right foot
To fit into the glass slipper you present them with.
Honorable mention
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