Since he diedI've felt a pit insideI'm not sure why it's thereOr if its friendlyBut everything seems more scaryI'm scaredI'm sad but he wouldn't want me to beSo I act like I'm fine
is my body my ownor is it controlled by someoneand im in the passenger seatcause why was i made like thisa girl with boobsnot a boy with a flat chesti envy them,all of them
I don't know what's wrong with me,I can't stand,Can't walk,I can't do what I love,I can't run through the fields,Ones with the flowers and the bees,So I sit,I sit and wait till I can,But I don't know when I can,I dont know if I can,Cause I've been waiting for months,And I still can't.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.