Re: The Life and Death of a Writer

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#526116

DCapone
Participant

They call her a writer

Because she can pretend

And she looks into things

Rather than through them

 

Though 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

 

Because 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

 

Though 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

 

Because 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

 

Though the world soon stopped spinning

Leaving the castles alone to dry