Poetry: The Life & Death of a Writer

I haven't written poetry for a while. But I thought I'd share one of my previous efforts to help distract from the whole story-writing illness. So, for your enjoyment (or not), here's The Life & Death of a Writer.

The Life and Death of a Writer

They call her a writer

Because she can pretend

And she looks into things

Rather than through them

Her eyes are kaleidoscopes

Spinning between dreams and lies

Her words are orgasms

Arching across the page

Like moist vibrations too hot to touch

Significance fading quickly

Her soul collapses

To the sound of a stranger’s breathing

They say she’s a poet

Because she dances in the shadows

Undulating like the rising tides

Mermaids comb from their hair

Her body is an instrument

Fitting a mold that her mind denies

Her prose is a knife drawn

Slowly across the vein

Bleeding away haunted visions

And forming scarlet castles

Her heart crumbles

To the sound of her own breathing

She had been a dreamer

Because she saw the filament

That bridged opposing worlds

And walked that thread each night

Her world soon stopped spinning

Leaving the castles alone to dry