Two Things

There are two things in my mind

A poem. And a bathtub.

At the beginning of the poem there is wit, and careful planning, spontaneous execution.

There is great, heavy Beauty so beautiful it makes you ache. 

There is fear that makes you reccede back into yourself. 

And no one sees it.

And no one is coming.

It is morbid and desperate and small and made of pens and ink and thumbtacks and blood and feathers and snow and guilt.

At the beginning of the bathtub there is wit, and carefull planning, spontaneous execution.

There is great, heavy Sorrow so sad it makes you ache.

There is fear that makes you recede back into yourself.

And no one sees it. 

And no one is coming.

It is morbid and desperate and small and made of pills and bottles and thumbtacks and blood and feathers and snow and guilt.

At the end of the poem, there is another poem.

But at the end of the bathtub, there is nothing.