Bad Days and a Burning Tree

The bad days were like molten iron.
But they passed
Like the blurring of lights after waking up
That no one remembers.
The bad days happened
And more bad days happen.
There is chaos only when the forest is on fire.
But there is only one tree
In me.
And it burns alone
Without burning anything else.
There is only one tree
In me
And it burns,
Spitting out fiery birds that take off to kiss the air that swallow them.
There is only one tree
In me,
And it burns and collects as ash
At the bottom of my heart.
This ash is my pigment.
I mix it with imagination
And make ink to write.

Being Suicidal

A wrist leaks blood on a sink,
A rope on a leaf-less tree,
Too many pills in the hand.
Wining,
Stretching naked on a narrow bed,
Not able to stretch enough.
Sometimes I wish
Someone stretched me
Until I broke in half.
Sometimes I wish
Someone would know my pain.
But no.
A wrist leaks blood on a sink,
A rope on a leafless tree,
Too many pills in the hand.
Rocks erode and flowers wither
And footprints dissolve into the lips of the sea.
And not even the sea remembers
How big they were,
What created them.
Wrists leak blood on sinks,
Ropes sway on trees,
And the pills get swallowed.

Blood and Rose

Blood slashed onto a wall,
Leaking down through the shadow of a man
With a knife.
He leaves,
Letting the door stay open.
Black roses hide in some undiscovered cave,
Not knowing there are red roses,
White roses,
Pink roses.
The blood falls onto the black petals,
As if making it feel red and Normal
For some time.
The blood gives the flower its identity.
But not for long.
They say roses are red.
No one will say they’re red and black.
Blood slashed onto a wall,
Rolling down to the rose beneath
Slowly.