bugshello little worm
little line of blue.
i couldn't help but notice you
making your way through porcelain dirt
much like the bed we lay in now
dressed in our finest red sunday skirt
i feel you with just the tips of my fingers-
you've come out to play
it's warm inside and the water is just right
and this bed is your favorite place to stay
cold, cool, rough on my neck
somehow that's the pain that gets to me
that's what bothers me as i watch you
hunched over like a small child examining an insect..
then i remember- that's true
you are a little worm inside me
you've burrowed pretty deep
but not deep enough to keep you
from what i hold dear to me
you feel my fingers as they caress your form
the ridge the line on the soft smooth "dirt"
that you've found your home in
that you've made a hole in
that you've brought life to,
but haven't made any better.
you know this little game we play
isn't like the others- you know
that it's sacrifice for us both.
and it hurts us to make it
well, me, not so muc
The InkwellWhat is it?
But how could I explain.
How does one tell others
what it's like to go insane?
I sit in my thoughts, and drown in my head
the gray world I dwell says I'm already dead
It starts at your finger,
but maybe your tongue.
a big black splotch- where had my skin gone?
I waved it in front of my father-
told him to help me, I said
"Won't you get it off, why won't it come off
I've washed it and popped pills and done all I can
but this blotch just won't come off."
so he took me to the hospital,
but not because of the spots
he took me because I'm crazy,
because he said
"there's nothing there at all."
So I look in the mirror and see them
crawling up my skin.
I can just feel them in the back of my head
telling me to sin.
And they spread so fast and only I see
what they're doing to me.
To everyone else I'm just like them
just a human being.
The more I try to get them off the more they just come back.
They all weigh a hundred pounds,
I can't carry them all around.
Heavier and heavier