who wants a blank tombstone anyway

white page

condemned

by the weight of black ink

as you scribble faster, while you still

remember; before you change

a memoir of who you were yesterday, a record containing every inflection of your mind,

for what will you be in the end if you never remember what you were? we are all

stone anyway

marked by the words we ourselves write, etched according to how many times we have split open 

 

cracked

 

 

so this white page becomes more than words -  for each letter has reached out and made itself a home in my spilt blood

and these dripping thoughts become more than pretty sounds and sweet smells

they are my

scribbles, like a doctors prescription 

diction, like the mouth of a judge, engraved on to my very surface 

MY cure

MY incriminating evidence

MY proof

 

that i have        thought     &      felt       &         hurt

 

my cracks, my proof

for that when i am dead, when i am old, when i am me tomorrow

both heaven and i will know,

 

that my stone has bled

This poem is about: 
Me

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