All the world's a stage.
The screams once stuck to you,
bright pink, like chewing gum,
and not subject to any
punk-rock purification.
They shut your mouth.

Now, your brain is splattered,
scatter-shot, like spray paint,
graffiti on my wall, lyrics,
phrases lacking music, finally silent.
Left with nothing but that and
your bleached and broken skull,
I ponder the emptiness,
the vacant cavity, where
once life dwelt so heavily.

Some nights, I remember you
less than fondly, the knife-edge
of your voice, you squealing,
the feedback of your soul, so sure.
You knew life would never get better.
A fool's game to trust in fate,
better to throw in with needles and guns.
Never say a word again, and I know,
my love for you, it drove you,
whip-like, stinging, right to the edge.
Guilt leaves a hole in my belly.
I wish I'd never heard your song.

08/02/2005

Author's Note: Writing.com slam poem about a romance with a dead person. In this instance, Kurt Cobain.

Posted on 08/02/2005
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