how come I have so much love in me
yet am still looking for it, begging for it from others who
don’t have it?
which better have is this I’m looking for yet I
can’t see any half part of me
missing as if I’m some half cut orange walking through them
streets exposing my cut side to infections?
I should have just stayed better half like that
you broke me into tiny worse fractions it
kills the lamb in me,
of late I have been feeding the wolf in me,
growling so hard when darkness delays
I feel like this world stage was meant for horror
and romance tales were just but a curtain raising
and soon when I have mastered the script
many pages will start missing.
I have a spirit I refuse to call ghost
grate urge to see victims of death, I miss days when I’ll come
back home with chopped heads swinging under my hands
offloading people who are a burden to this earth, from its surface and hurling them to the sky and oncoming trains
put this religion god to its end
and my tamed goth to its mend.
sometimes when that urge grows so strong
I walk into mortuaries and gaze at dead bodies
swollen bellies of marine corpse, eyes that refuse to be closed
turgid legs that refuse to be bent into unfitting coffins
and prefer to be axed, beards that refuse to stop growing
just because death has come
bodies that continue stinking even when dignitaries are present
I love how dead people fight to see their dignity alive.