Spoopy_Mouse

    Jon walked home from the grocery store, the brown paper bag heavy in his frail hands. He hardly went out anymore.

He is an artist with furious, biting hands
He scribbles scenes he hasn’t seen
“But I’ve been there,” he says
Gesturing to a distorted image
It appears to be a festering wound

You are the soldier
And you are the artist

If I wasn’t myself
And my lips belonged to someone else
I’d ask you to kiss me

I am incapable of being human
I am incapable of feeling love
But I cry anyways
I choose to cry and pretend to yearn

Your long blonde locks fall on me like gentle rays
I'm warmed by the shine in your eyes

And the leeches latch onto your face
With an absent mind, you try to pry them off

Meandering through the meadow

His feet smacked across the pavement, staining his white pants with mud from tomorrow's rain. He wished he had a breath to catch, but it seemed everything that had made him human had slipped through his fingers.

And the poets are in the tallest trees
Thinking they can find a hole in the sky
And see beyond our shell
Hands grow sore
And some lose their grip
Never to see the top of the tree
Their spines smack the forest floor