poeticflesh

[poeticflesh]

Daily reminder to write bad poems.

Write bad songs.

Write bad stories.

Art is art, no matter how it is perceived.

Writing is still writing. No true artist will judge anothers work, as we all know art is subjective.

Post that poem you think is horrid, love. I assure you it's not.

-F.S

[poeticflesh]

there is something so deep about leaving your bedroom door open.

i trust you, it says. you won't hurt me.

the light spills into the room, and i clutch my blanket to my chest. the light means you're up, i am safe.

you check on me before you go to bed, and the light will turn off as you leave. the darkness would be scary, but you are here, and i am safe.

a floorboard creaks, and though im scared, i know you are here with me. i am safe.

i hear the water running in the bathroom. You are awake, and i am safe.

i am safe, because you are safety. i can sleep, because you are peace.

i turn away from the door and hold my blanket loose, because i am safe. i have trust in you, and you are safe.

ill wake up in the morning, with not a scratch on my body, with no surprise about it. you wouldnt hurt me.

i sleep in comfort because you are here. i am safe.

[poeticflesh]

trigger warning ; this is about death. suicide/overdose. do not read if this is distressing.

Today I woke up, and I knew it was my last.

I smiled, I've always liked things set in stone.

I put on my favourite shirt, and I smiled as I made my coffee.

I watch my mothers smile crinkle her face as i describe her beauty, unafraid of how i am perceived.

When i am asked on the kindness, i laugh and say i am just happy.

I thank my brother for passing me my cup.

I laugh at the look he gives me.

I don't take my meds, I'll be gone by morning anyways.

Two more hours.

Suddenly my coffee tastes sweeter.

I take a shower.

The water cascades down my back, turning into droplets as it hits the ground.

I must look my best for death.

One hour left.

I tell my friends i love them, and everything they've done for me.

I send a message to everyone i know.

Five minutes.

I grab the bottle, it shakes and rattles in my hold.

Three minutes.

I lock the door, and as i feel the cold bathroom floor beneath my palms, I wonder who will find me.

One minute.

I finish the note, apologises in scrawled letters for what i did and didn't do.

I pour out the bottle and force myself to swallow.

I think of my mother, her golden locks and bright smiles.

My brothers and their dry humour.

Black spots litter my vision, and suddenly i miss the moon.

As i die, i suddenly miss living.

— f.s , Before I Died

[poeticflesh]

Hushed voices in the whispers of the wind,

Let me unwind my heartstrings

For your grip on my veins tugs and holds

Until you have consumed my life form

Until you and i are one

For who am I, without the sun?

An eternal night? A waking dream?

A nightmare, waiting to be seen?

Let the children scream and cry in my presence,

Let them dance and sing in yours

Joyous laughter of many,

Always wanting more

I whisk them away to a dreamless sleep,

You bring them back, their souls to keep

I am nothing without the sun.

What are you without the moon?

— f.s

[poeticflesh]

I yearn for the warmth of The Fathers hand

The blissful unawareness that fogs your brain as you kneel in the pew

Shadow puppets made of the darkness the light swore to protect me from

Unfortunately i can't worship god after satanic symbolism has became my social standing

As The Fathers followers rejected me and my fathers ways are injected into me

I weep, sorrow filling my whole being as another prayer goes unanswered, and it is then that I decide that my blood was made from my mothers love instead of The Fathers all-knowing ignorance.

— f.s

[poeticflesh]

Pluck my veins like strings on your guitar,

My heartbeat as your drums

My spinal cord as your xylophone

Played by my fingers and my thumbs

My vertebrae to keep you okay

My eyes, a pretty blue

And all of this is just for you.

My blood splattered?

It doesn't matter.

Use it as your paint.

Id gladly always keep

Your pleasure as my pain

To keep your integrity,

I ruined my posterity

Say ‘I love you’ with sincerity.

- f.s

[poeticflesh]

Cold bones and low tones,

A dead man; a skeletons home

Infested eyes, bug riddled thighs

And it is then i realise

I am no man, just food for the land

Conjoined to it, like dew drops and sand

I am buried in the moonlight,

Consumed by the day

Creatures and critters who whisk me away

And when the cycle is finally done,

I am no boy; I am a dead man's son.

— f.s

[poeticflesh]

Dead man's dove,

He will never show love.

Yet, you keep on asking.

With clipped wings,

A bird who can't sing,

Is forever tied to a grave.

Ask me a question,

Lovely dove,

Let your vocal cords strangle you.

For a dead man's dove,

Only gets love,

When they join him in the grave

— f.s

[poeticflesh]

Old bones and empty homes,

A skeleton keeps on asking

“Who am I without blood?

What do I have to shed?

Useless on the battlefield,

With nothing left to dread.”

Because who is he?

Left in weeds,

With his skin turning blue.

So cry out the question

With rattling bones.

But which do you fear more?

The silence or the sound

— f.s

[poeticflesh]

I was not made for love.

I was not made for tender hugs,

Or soft touches.

Stitching your heart back together,

Or being there for everyone whenever.

I wasn't made to hold,

For someone to kiss from sunrise to sunset.

I cannot keep water in my hands,

For it will always flow back into the sea.

I cannot gently hold a flower between my fingers,

For it will always be placed onto a grave.

But here,

With your face delicately cupped between my palms,

I can cherish.

I can cherish the way the wind blows,

For it makes your hair flow.

I can cherish your smile,

Making sure it's the only consistent thing in my day.

I can cherish songs,

For your voice will always shine through.

I cannot love.

But damn, if this isn’t close.

— f.s

[poeticflesh]

Teach me to love,

Teach me of lips brushed softly over anothers

Hushed promises from blossoming lovers

Sweet nothings whispered in the silence of night

Fingertips washing over my slow decay

Swaying to the sounds of young love lasting another day.

Teach me to fight,

Teach me of bruised flesh that is far too fresh,

Bloody knuckles and cheap booze

Reassurances murmured to observant ears

Drinking in a soft caress

Frantically muttered names in distress.

Teach me to hate,

Teach me of your lethal words nestled into my lungs

Shattered glass in the carpet

Venom on the tip of my tongue

Soft gazes turned sharp

Newly healed knuckles swung

Break my heart, my love

As long as you stitch it together again.

— F.S , UNNAMED

[poeticflesh]

There's a stranger in the mirror.

She's my age, with hair to her shoulders.

She looks just like me,

And though I hate her, I wish I could see her clearer.

There's a stranger in the mirror, over five feet tall.

With eyes like the ocean, and freckles like the fall.

She glares at me with disgust and remorse,

She hurt my lungs, as I screamed myself hoarse.

I look away,

and with a soft whisper I ask her name.

Yet, mine and hers are much the same.

— F.S , past

[poeticflesh]

People stare as i walk,

judging glances that tear into my flesh,

The words are on the tips of their tongues,

I walk faster.

The packed hallways mock me, as i know exactly what they have expected

They have expected my body to be outlined in chalk by now.

They have expected another number, another news story, another amber alert.

Another, another, another

Another funeral, another ‘at risk youth’ program being offered, another headline in the school newspaper.

Another, another, another.

Another trans teen missing, another charity to donate to, another tiktok trend where they pretend to care for a few more months. A few more minutes.

Another, another, another.

They think being me is being doomed to a fate worse than death. They think being me is pitiful, a delusion at best. They think being me is a trend.

They think, they think, they think.

They think I am a puzzle, made for their temporary viewing. They think i am a formality, respect only to be given to because i will be angry if not. They think I am a child, not yet old enough to know who I am.

They think, they think, they think.

I am a person. You will not gawk at me because I am different than how you think I should be.

— F.S , unidentified