What Am I Made Of The ghosts of hearts unfairly broken haunt me relentlessly my own among their wreckage and the ones still alive they kick down, through the floorboards of my brain and reverberate in the pit of my stomach Ghosts of lovers who loved me too much those I rolled eyes at, and turned away from, to crawl for miles on bloodied knees and claw at the departing feet of those who did not love me enough. Ghosts of the friends I picked apart like the vulture's beak to carrion and become angry when they no longer fed me Ghosts of friends who disappeared into the ether of life and forgot they were my solid ground I think I'm made up of ghosts all vapor and energy nothingness roaming empty of touch devoid of breath but heavy, oh so heavy in soul.
Happy Epic Palindrome Day!
Ok, that’s not really a thing. I just…
*sigh* I’m a little off from all of the serious and ADULT-like writing I’ve been doing lately.
I’m overcompensating with frivolity. It happens.
Here’s your Verse, you ungrateful math-hater (oh and by the way, it’s quirky too).
While you were asleep, I borrowed your pen and scratched ink over that dreadful book you’re writing.
Just a reminder that this was once my house, before you banged open the door and disturbed my rest.
Before you halted my slumber with your key-clacking and plastered that fluorescent post-it monstrosity over my Schumacher wallpaper.
Of all the idiots to suffer, why’d it have to be a writer now at my desk?
What editorial mistake did I make in life to land you here?
I fixed your opening line.