Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Cold Sore

Stiff and blank
Like new pages,
Like almost nothing.
Falling off,
Not bothering
To pick myself up,
Just wallowing
In dirt, on a
Ground colder than
Your heart.
Listening to crickets
Make their song
While sadness rules
My heart.
Tears glistening off
Riddles of
Rainwater gathered
In despair.
Indicative of bigger
Things, sighing
In smallness
While severed scents
Roam around inside
The deeper parts of me.
Wouldn't a knife
Just kill her, no
Quicker than a gun.
And here we wait
In the mourning
Of dead silence,
Poking and prodding,
Guiding her back
From death,
Into an alternative
Reality where this
Moment ends,
And insanity
Picks itself up
Dusts itself off to
A mariachi band
And stumbles into
The light with a
Cigarette in one hand,
A fistful of neglect
In the other,
Just begging to be thrown.

April 22nd, 2007
Suge


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Cold Sore

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