Closed Collab

[Splediferous Masochism]

How long has nothing grown
in the bricked patch of woodchips
under my mailbox?
For every soiled fingerprint or
thin layer of ash on their backs,
I'd hoped for sunflowers.

[TheVoiceOfCreation]

How long has nothing grown
in the bricked patch of woodchips
under my mailbox?
For every soiled fingerprint or
thin layer of ash on their backs,
I'd hoped for sunflowers.

But the only sun that flowered
this tiny patch of me
exists below all the dirt and grime
in which my fingers are buried-

too heavy
to move words.

[Splediferous Masochism]

All the outgoing letters I piled into
the week's
M
A
I
L
are coming back marked insufficient postage-
my parched tongue meant to leave two stamps
dripping,
but rolled against the back of my throat and fell
mute.

[TheVoiceOfCreation]

All the outgoing letters I piled into
the week's

Musings:
Aberrations plucked from
Illconceived precognitions of
Love

are coming back marked insufficient postage-
my parched tongue meant to leave two stamps
dripping,
but rolled against the back of my throat and fell
mute.

I tore open the envelopes
in hopes that they might speak for me,
but all I heard was the sound of my heart
pleading for the shredder.

Instead, I memorized each letter, and vowed
never to re-write them in that order again.