My blood pours
Words spill
I Motion forward, but my heart empty and still
I lost it all like a robbers ravaged till
How I go on I don’t know
A corpse crawling for salvation
A remnant calling for excavation
Instead only scavengers find me, as I lay ill
Black and cold like the crow
They peck and nibble at my wounds and organ yet to be sewn
I’m dying slow
Eating my own festering brain akin to sea squirts, or Paul upon Hannibal’s call
I lost it all
This is my fall
Labored breaths, heavy chest, I lay waiting for god to claim what’s left..
About the Creator
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More stories from Kenneth cruz and writers in Poets and other communities.
Broken Glass
Of all the students Mr. Benedick expected to see in his office, he did not expect the boy who was sitting there. What grade was this one, he thought? He walked over to his desk, looked at the folder Ms. Diner had left out for him, and opened it. There was a photo inside of it, taken from last year’s picture day. Not much growth; not too different. The boy sitting in front of him had nothing strange or unusual in his file, if a child’s life defined by having “nothing disruptive or regretful” in it could be called fine. Mr. Benedick also realized that “life” was an anagram of “file,” and wondered where that thought came from as he stared at the boy in front of him. Benny Duncan. Grade Four. Beloved by all his teachers so far. He had seen the boy playing with the other boys his age in the school yard at recess. Four Square and foot hockey. A normal-looking kid. A normal kid… And here he was, after a very stupid moment with the fire alarm and a shoe.
By Kendall Defoe 2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was so poignant. I loved it!