Pop Poem by Brianna Stuckey

Pop

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Look to the left.
Darkness clouds my mind.
Not that my mind has ever been clear.
In quick distraction, born to shear.
Nothing exists,
that of fear.
The light floods in,
the brightness scrubs at my fallen tear.

Look right.
Fire burns, if it burns, I stay warm.
If it stops, burns out maybe? , , I freeze, as I was never here.
Decaying.
Repaying.
Nothing.
Darkness, once there and ignored.
Now I see.
See, I now know what the shadows are.
Wait.! No. No. No.
The monster i-is th-there. I s-see it.

Look up.
Whats the liquid, falling free on my skin.
Cold and moist, shiny and solid.
Stalling myself, busy with the mystical, yet hurtful feeling that come.
Myself, I, Me? Yes. I am human.
Not a drone.
Not an alien.
Not a dog nor am I a cat.

But, my heart, rotted, stolen, broken, tossed, stuck on my sleeve, denies the claim.
Theres a beast, deep, deep inside me, surfacing more and more.
Its coming. Its here. Its untame.
Once you know, its too late, which is a shame.
I once did have mercy, you only caught me on a bad day.
I wanted revenge.

O how sweet it tastes.
Yes. It has tingling sensation on my buds.
Juicy, metallic, salt-like.
Blood.
I see it leaking.
I hear it falling from your head.
Drip. Drip. Drip.

You are dead.
You read this over my shoulder.
I put you away, as if you're death is meaningless.
Maybe it is, although I did get quite the rush or power surging through my druken body, the minute you …. popped, aye?

Well you are a balloon now.
I blow you up.
I reach in my pocket.
What do I have, a gift?
A bright sharp needle.
Pop.

Saturday, March 22, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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