La Petite Mort of Creativity

Katy Vampire May16 small[1]

Let me bleed out a moment’s release,

from this contemptible inner peace.

 

my tears are too clear of midnight ink,

my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.

 

I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,

for owls, magpies – among nests of unfamiliar

 

I churlishly spread my coquettish legs

seducing any passing stranger’s death.

 

To be touched – trembled by fingers of grief,

so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath

 

I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,

traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.

 

I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return

to break open my heart, leave me spurned,

filling this barren womb with words

that haven’t been born, read, or heard.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

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