By Ryan King
I cut my blood
on a razorblade’s glistening tongue
Dreams ride viscous laughter
They never let me go
This is the stink of Saturday morning conversations
stained by rural teeth
Can we take our breath for granted in silence?
Just for once
-or-
for the weak
I soiled that blade as a gift to you
A heart,
bled-out
beneath a mountain of frenetic dust
Someone showed up;
became a crowd,
to watch me tremble
Still,
now
Still as windless weeds
Still as a rotting deer
in the dying trickle
of a drying creek
This poem is also featured in Ryan’s chapbook, Visitor, published by Between Shadows Press.
Ryan King is an artist just trying to make it through this life. He is a songwriter/musician, poet and a painter. He has recorded a few albums worth of songs independently. He has had poetry published by 48th Street press, Rad Publishing Co., and most recently, his chapbook, Visitor, published by Between Shadows Press. Follow him on instagram @vayouking
