The Mad Creator Mixing poetry and madness In petri dishes made of cardboard Searching for the perfect drink: Make him drunk, But not so he cannot write; Make him numb, But not so he cannot remember his dealings. Make him learn to fly, So he can learn to live like angels To play God on…
I’m brooding over a mug Of black coffee at 4am, Trying to warm my cold bones And broken heart… Oh please, I drink green tea After my morning yoga; I’m about as happy as it gets. Unfortunately mountains poses And sunrise Don’t sell quite as well As moonlight and despair.
It’s the most wonderful time
Of the year.
There are ghosts in my tears! Then cry your eyes out, love, But don’t expect me to pass you A tissue. Those ghosts are our friends, They’d be yours too if you Stopped sniffing. You only created them, They owe you nothing.
I am a woman Made of wood; Paint and carve, And chip away. Pretend you made me But, I was always alive. Make me a mouth So I can give you back Your little words, Oh, Creator, Consumed by madness. My god without eyes Look and see: It fits, It fits.