A Poem Named Jim

Who is your ex-wife,

And why did she divorce you?

Flowers aren't flowers without an explanation;

A murderer of sorts, a murderer of the mind

You get me away from my body

Because you are a bully,

And bullies fall in their own pit; eventually

Your death is already here...

Just look at the book in the box

And what the hell are you standing for

When you've just sat down?

For you get people down, yet they beg for mercy

And pretty flowers are just pretty hands

Tied to your niches,

Prepare to go down in flames in your death

For hell is a place of torment, I must confess;

Dear devil, why must you do this?

Why must you hand me pretty flowers

And then expect me to die?

For Jim, you are the devil

Dressed in library confessions

You dance to the tune of your own mind

And then you panic at the sight of yourself

Die, die, little Jim;

For the little boy inside you is happy

In the self-destruction of others,

You are a red omen in a tainted sky

Magical flames are everywhere

And there is your ex-wife standing at the door

Screaming your name

Jim, Jim; your death is so beautiful

Your romance conspiracy

Is the death of your book

That was never once written in print,

Oh what happened to this memoir

That was supposed to be a beautiful destiny?

For I am scared of your hands all over me...

For I am scared of your deliverance...

 

Deep, deep conspiracies

Make people die

Because your conspiracies are all lies,

Lies...lies...lies;

And you are a fish in a barrel

Destined to drown

Shoot me please, do you have a gun?

For life is just a blank

A poem named Jim

Is just a poetic disaster...

Rape me with your words, not your praise;

Tall and muscular you are

I see a monster in return

Dead in the abyss,

I want to go home

And the love you give to people is of self-destruction

I have last seen a rainbow in the sky;

Rape, rape, sorrowful rape

I have seen my time on this earth

For what is life of an empath

Who has been destroyed?

My power is stricken before me.

Your dark sense of humor has ruined me

And the piano has died in your eyes...

Oh where is the music that defines us?

Oh where is the music that lives?

For rape is a word not stricken...

So why am I so defensive?

Well maybe because it is stricken

And I am stricken with it.

The beautiful rose that has once died

Has grown in the dark,

And I am not promiscuous,

At least not anymore

And many doors have opened

Yet they are all locked...

I feel my life is a dying pang

Hungry from the strife;

Thank you, Jim.