These words you read as poetry
Are language for the dead
They’re something like an epitaph
I keep inside my head

Spilling out like blood
Into the confines of a page
Letters to the future
Once I end up in my grave

These dark words dripping metophors
Are twisted by design
They live in certain places
In the confines of the mind

Appearing quite unconsciously
In everything I write
While unbeknownst to me
They often bring the truth to life

This thing we do as therapy
Or simply for the fame
Is just a poor excuse for me
To reinvent my name

But when the words are counted
And the last ink has been spilled
The only thing I’ll have to show
Is all the time I killed

Just dark interpretations
Of the present life I live
Who I am still loving
And the souls I can’t forgive

Letters to some ghosts
That I keep raising
From the dead
Words of longing for someone
Who used to share my bed

TM DiSarro

©2020 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing

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