my fun

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

loss of a child i suppose. it can be a sickening thought especially if you have a child of your own, as i do. i believe it's important to explore all types of sorrow so we can identify with the true inevitability.


take my picture off the wall,

it's not me i'm looking for,

leaning over the cradle,

crying out from the cage,

spilling over the ladle on the floor,

projecting onto me all its rage.

drip some blood upon the page,

coil up inside the shell,

big enough for the insects,

no exodus from the cave,

dark enough for the vampire and his dog,

inhabiting my mind as its slave.

i'm all but wilted from the heat,

i have no purpose to obtain,

trying all my reactions,

finding none to be fed,

giving into another form of shade,

giving up on every word that i've said.

the baby's born and then it's dead,

remove the cradle from my room,

live inside of some memory,

dust the dirt from its bones,

wanting only to hold what's left behind,

its body's been exchanged by the stone.

Submitted: January 24, 2011

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