Tying A Knife Around My Wrists Poem by gregory collins

Death chewed your fathers' eye for supper. It
combed its hair like a train on the tracks; Like

light takes a deep breath from the sky of your
belly, and makes a bed for a stranger: My soul.

Now every dawn creates words for music, arrives
like the lonesome deep breath of the past, and

i spin like a wheel and tell you everything about
love is true. That while you itch like golden rings

itch, you break ice from calling out my name in a dream.
You are just the exact same place where i died, and

the souls of banks are like screwdrivers. They know
the lost road and the same place where i die: The

lieutenants of tears, and the regret of those unborn.
The regets that make me weep, laughing the light

of a sharp knife. That the last thing to believe in, is
sleeping into darkness. The crying that grinds its

teeth, laughing in your stomach. Telling you these words
creep into your soul; a place of no examples.