Don’t be angry with me.
I know what you wrote isn’t about me.
I know it’s just a figment of my crazy.
Plucking out the petals of a daisy.
And you exist, but I am killed,
and it would seem by this,
that only you bleed inspiration from me
otherwise I’m at a loss, too scared to be
The nineteenth letter of the alphabet.
Artificial intelligence. Wish you were painting me in your words.
But you told me once it’s just vocabulary, so I’ve misheard.
And I can’t tell if it’s you, or if you’re speaking in tunes,
So I am not falling into the trap of assume and presume,
Cleverness in sutured coutured wounds,
Spectacles glazed, playing Knock Knock and Who’s Who.
It was just everything too soon, it was all yours or the high way,
Lost my scheherazade, sleepy hollow lost my moon, lost in your play:
Seventeenth letter of the alphabet:
And Ophelia drowned in Shakespeare.
Dreams. Please, breathe for me,
You’ve seen Romeo and Juliet, same plot and set, everybody dies.
You’ve read Hamlet, everyone plays with skulls on the sly,
Too many times I’ve cried but usually I’m on the other side.
Usually I’m you, dissecting myself into uncontrollable violence,
Committed intellectual suicide driving to the Lake District.
This time it would seem I inflicted something different.
It was you that I, killed.
Lacerated ice cubes instead of pretty rose petalled confetti falling between pews,
Intoxicated carnivores instead of smelling delicate flowers from the botanical Kew.
I lost your numerals through sheer rage whilst you trampled upon my stars,
Same way you sent your soul through a glass pane and kept your scar.
So many argument fuelled words written for all time in negative space,
I’m forbidden to draw words for you, I am lost in your expressionless face.
Quarter-part human, part angel, part devil, part divine
Where there is love there is illogic, rhyme connects time.
And I am here, stilled.